Chapter Text
“So you’ve been thinking that I didn’t believe you capable of fighting the boggart?” said Lupin shrewdly.
“Well… yeah.”
Lupin shook his head, regarding Harry thoughtfully.
“Well, to be abundantly clear, I never once doubted your abilities, Harry. You’re so young, and already you’ve faced horrors that most adults couldn’t even imagine.” The haggard-looking professor paused to take a sip of his tea, leaning back in his chair as he continued to study Harry’s face. Suddenly, his expression brightened a bit.
“Actually…” Lupin gestured at a large packing case in the corner of his office. “Just this morning Mr. Filch reported another boggart lurking in his filing cabinet. I had intended to banish it later, but you could certainly have a go at it if you like. Since you didn’t get to in class.”
Harry wet his lips and sat up a bit straighter, looking over the rather nondescript packing case. Even though Professor Lupin didn’t seem to think he was a coward after all, Harry couldn’t help but want to prove it.
And a part of him was curious.
He thought of the slimy, gray, rotting flesh of the dementors’ hands. The bone-deep chill, the sense of hopelessness that descended on him, cloaking him in darkness. The sound of his mother begging Voldemort not to kill him, her piercing scream before she died…
No doubt the dementors were terrifying—more so than Voldemort himself. The Dark Lord felt far away, ephemeral. He was a looming threat, true, but he was still just a bodiless wraith as far as anyone knew, and the dementors that guarded the school were a much more immediate danger.
As Harry stared at it, the packing case began to shake as though the boggart could sense the heat of his gaze on it and was trying to claw its way out.
Something inside Harry was trying to claw its way out, too. Resolutely, he forced it back down with a hard swallow.
No. That was ridiculous.
Harry wasn’t… afraid of him. Riddle was gone. Destroyed along with his Diary the previous school year.
It had taken some weeks after the encounter in the Chamber for the experience to really catch up with him, but sometime over the summer, he’d started having recurring nightmares about Riddle.
Shadowy, dark… deeply confusing nightmares.
But that’s all they were. They didn’t actually mean anything. It was silly, really, to even be thinking about it now. Harry shook the thought from his mind.
He could prove it. Prove that it didn’t mean anything. His eyes bore into the still sporadically shaking packing case, and he called to mind the image of the dark, hooded figure he’d seen on the train—willing himself to feel the fear he’d felt then.
Harry’s eyes darted back to Lupin, who was still watching him calmly and sipping his tea. He gave the man a quick nod. “Could I? Please?”
Lupin nodded back at him and set his cup down on the desk. “You remember the incantation, yes?”
“Yeah, Riddikulus. And you've got to imagine it doing something funny.”
Harry tried to think again of how you could make a dementor into something funny. Maybe its hood would fall down, and it would have Aunt Petunia’s head, bobbling on her long neck? That wasn’t really that funny, though…
But Lupin had already risen from his chair and was standing off to the side of the packing case with his wand trained on it. “Ready, Harry? Just step right up in front, here.”
Although he wasn’t exactly ready, Harry didn’t want to look like a scared, hesitant baby, so he stepped up to the case with more confidence than he actually felt and drew his wand. He was good at improvising, he told himself.
“Okay, on the count of three, I’m going to Vanish the case.”
Harry didn’t know why—he knew it wasn’t real, after all—but his heart was pounding faster than normal, all the same. His grip tightened on his wand, and he tried to focus on Lupin’s counting in the background.
“One… two… three!”
Lupin waved his wand, and the case disappeared.
With it went all the air in Harry’s lungs.
He’d been imagining a dementor, hadn’t he? He was pretty sure he had, but…
Why on Earth…?
A teenage Tom Riddle—no, teenage Voldemort—was leaning casually against the wall of Lupin’s office as if he hadn’t a care in the world. He was wearing Hogwarts robes and looked exactly as he had in the Chamber last year… Exactly as he did in Harry’s nightmares.
Tall… dark…
Exactly the same, except—a chill ran up Harry’s spine—completely solid.
He looked real.
“Something funny, Harry,” Lupin was saying, sounding very far away.
Something funny? Somehow, Harry’s mind had been wiped completely blank. What could be funny about Riddle? The languid way he unfurled his long limbs, the knowing flash in his dark eyes… the way the soft waves of his hair fell, looking somehow both flawless and completely effortless at the same time…
Harry’s breath hitched as he tried to reorient himself.
Right… the banishing spell… What was it again? Riddikulus.
This is ridiculous, he thought as a giddy, almost hysterical laugh threatened to bubble up in his throat. Laughter was, of course, exactly what he needed, but the laugh that wanted to escape was much more nervous than humorous.
Almost lazily, Riddle’s gaze drifted up to settle on his, a small, amused smirk spreading across his face as he peered down at Harry through long, dark lashes. His irises were like polished obsidian—twin black holes that would suck Harry in and swallow him whole if he got too close.
Again, Harry swallowed thickly, trying to remember what he was supposed to be doing.
He lifted his wand at Riddle, but the boy just gave it a quick, careless glance and raised an eyebrow at him, amusement still sparking in his eyes.
Fuck. This was the future murderer of his parents… the boy who had tried to kill Ginny…
He may look sixteen and almost unbearably handsome, but this was a budding Dark Lord, for Merlin’s sake. He had already committed murder. Had already dabbled in the darkest of magic.
“Ridd—Riddikulus!” Harry stammered. He imagined swinging his fist and landing a right hook against Riddle’s perfect cheekbone. Imagined the trickle of blood that would dribble from Riddle’s nose, how it would smear across his face as he tried to wipe it away. The way his eyes would widen slightly in surprise as he looked down at the crimson liquid staining those long, slender fingers.
Well, that was… kind of funny, wasn’t it?
For a second, nothing happened. Riddle was still standing there watching him, his head slightly cocked to one side.
“Oh, Harry,” he said, softly. Intimately. The way he said his name made Harry shiver all over and take a shaky step back. “Don’t you know why it won’t work, yet? I would’ve thought for sure you’d have figured it out by now…”
Riddle’s smile turned sharklike, and he peeled himself away from the wall, taking a step closer to Harry. Hunting his prey.
Harry stiffened, trying to make sense of what Riddle was talking about…
No. He had to focus—that was the problem. He had to get this over with before… before…
Riddle took another step closer. “Don’t think I don’t know your little secret, Harry. The filthy things you’ve been dreaming about.” He shook his head and gave a low chuckle, eyes burning into Harry’s as if he could see right through him. See right into his mind. Into his soul.
“What would your friends say if they knew, I wonder? What would your precious Dumbledore think if he knew? Knew the way you—”
Panic jolted through Harry’s entire body, jumpstarting him into action. “Riddikulus!” he cried out, cutting Riddle off.
He imagined they were playing Quidditch. A noise like a whip-crack, and suddenly, Riddle was on a broom near the ceiling, looking wide-eyed and terrified as though he’d never flown before. Maybe he hadn’t.
Riddle looked down with a gulp, his normally impeccable composure for once visibly shaken. A lock of that perfectly coiffed hair fell into his eyes.
Harry smirked. To his delight, Riddle lost his balance and fell off his broom, waving his arms comically in an attempt to catch himself before plummeting toward the floor—
Instead of hitting the ground, though, he simply disappeared in a small puff of smoke as if he’d never been there at all. The broom too was gone.
Before Harry could react, Lupin strode forward, and for a moment, that strange, silvery orb Harry had seen in class before floated midair in front of him.
Lupin waved his wand, and a packing case identical to the one he’d originally had the boggart in appeared. Then, he turned back to the orb, confidently uttering the incantation. With another loud whip-crack sound, the mysterious orb burst into tiny wisps of smoke.
For a long moment, Harry and Lupin both waited in silence. Harry stared hesitantly at the packing case, afraid to move or even breathe, until at last the case shook as it had before, and Lupin nodded to confirm the boggart was indeed confined once more.
“Good work, Harry,” he said kindly, though there was an odd undertone to his voice.
Now that the boggart was safely contained, the fear had receded enough for Harry to feel that his entire face was on fire—so hot he was afraid it might melt off if such a thing were possible. Although he wasn’t entirely sure why yet, he was pretty sure this was the most mortifying experience of his entire life. He half-wished Riddle had succeeded in killing him in the Chamber last June.
In spite of himself, Harry reflexively glanced up to see Lupin’s expression. His professor was smiling gently at him, but Harry was surprised to see an undeniable sadness just beneath the surface of the smile.
For a second, it almost made him forget his total mortification. Why should any of that make Lupin sad? Was he just that disappointed with Harry’s performance in banishing the boggart?
Quickly averting his eyes, Harry stared down at his trainers, scuffing one of them absently against the stone floor. His ears were still so hot he imagined them smoking like he'd just taken some Pepperup Potion.
“Boggarts can be tricky creatures,” Lupin added softly. “That one will take a few more attempts to scare off from the castle completely, but you did very well—especially for your first try.”
Harry tried to think of a response, but his mind and body were still buzzing from the unexpected encounter. Ducking his head down further as if he could hide inside himself, he desperately urged his confused, whirling mind to come up with a convincing explanation for what Lupin had just witnessed.
“Of course, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t wish to,” Lupin began hesitantly when Harry didn’t say anything. “But I wondered if I might ask who the boy was.”
“No one—just a—just a friend of my cousin Dudley’s. Used to bully me when I was a kid,” Harry blurted out. Then winced when he remembered Riddle had been wearing Hogwarts robes. “I—I mean, for a while I was worried he might turn out to be a wizard and show up at Hogwarts,” he added lamely, avoiding Lupin’s eyes.
Lupin opened his mouth tentatively as if to say something, but then closed it.
“Well—I really should be going, Professor. I expect Ron and Hermione will be getting back from Hogsmeade soon. Thanks for letting me have a—a go with the boggart.”
He was already halfway to the door when Lupin said his name.
“Yeah?” Harry turned back slowly, wishing he could just get out of there before Lupin asked him any more questions.
The corners of Lupin’s mouth twitched, and the man worried his lip a little before he spoke. “Harry, if you ever need to—to talk about anything…” he spread his hands meaningfully. “You know where to find me.”
“Right. Erm… bye, Professor,” Harry managed to get out before turning back to the door. Wiping his sweaty palms on his jeans, he walked the rest of the way to the door as calmly as he could. As soon as he was out of sight, though, he practically ran all the way back to Gryffindor Tower.
Try as he might to shut it out, the soft thrill of Riddle’s voice echoed in his head as he rushed up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Don’t think I don’t know your little secret, Harry…
Running was good. At least it made Harry feel like there was an acceptable reason for the way his heart was still racing even several minutes after the encounter.
Harry was in the Chamber again, like he had been almost every night since midsummer. Not that he'd ever admitted that to anyone, of course. It was called the Chamber of Secrets for a reason.
Ginny was not there this time, nor was there any trace of the Basilisk—alive or dead.
Sometimes its recently slain corpse was lying there, and Riddle would punish Harry for killing his pet. Other times, it was still alive and wound around them in menacing circles, blood seeping from its gouged out eyes. Ready to sink its fangs into his flesh at its master’s command.
But tonight, it was just the two of them. Him and Riddle. No, Voldemort—he really needed to remember that the handsome boy with the Prefect badge was already going by that name.
The Chamber was eerily quiet but for the sound of slowly dripping water amplified by the great stone walls that stretched up into unfathomable blackness.
As Riddle closed in on him, Harry took a stumbling step backwards and ran up against one of those walls. He whipped his head around, looking for an escape route. But, while this part of the Chamber was illuminated with a dim, almost mystical green light, the darkness that cradled it extended in every direction. He could not see, nor could he remember, the way out.
Before he knew it, Riddle was right there, close enough to touch, and Harry couldn’t breathe.
“Stop,” he said feebly, trying to slip to the side, but Riddle trapped him, caging him against the wall with arms on either side of Harry’s thin frame.
Riddle was very tall, much taller than Harry, who was still hoping for more of a growth spurt. Which meant, if he was quick—and he was—he could duck under Riddle’s arm and—
While Harry was quick, Riddle, as usual, moved with seemingly supernatural speed and caught him. Grabbed both his wrists, hard enough to bruise, and pinned him up against the wall, hands forced up on either side of his head.
And, as usual, Harry did not have his wand.
He huffed a little in desperation as he tried to wriggle himself out from under Riddle, but his muscles felt strangely weak. Reflexes maddeningly slow, like he was moving through water.
Riddle let him struggle in vain for a moment, only to slide one of his legs in between Harry’s thighs, pressing his body flush up against Harry’s and effectively immobilizing him.
“D-don’t,” Harry spluttered, not even sure what exactly he was protesting.
Riddle grinned at him as though he did know exactly what he was protesting and was planning on doing it anyway. “Don’t what, darling?”
Eyes gleaming, Riddle pressed him harder into the wall, scraping Harry’s back against the rough stone and forcing all the air from his lungs. Worse of all, though, as Riddle’s warm body pressed into his, his thigh ground down on—on Harry’s—
Harry bit back a whine at the sensation, the thrill that shot through his body making him shudder. “I don’t—I don’t want—”
“Use your words, Harry,” Riddle said condescendingly as he released one of Harry’s wrists to push the fringe out of his eyes, uncovering his scar. Harry tried to move his freed arm, but Riddle must have used a sticking charm because it still wouldn’t budge.
“I’m not gay!” he shouted, embarrassed, the temperature of his face climbing sharply when Riddle laughed.
“Are you absolutely sure about that, love? Because your cock is”—he paused to grind down on it again—“remarkably hard for me.”
A soft moan escaped Harry’s lips against his will. “I’m not! I like girls, I—”
He wasn’t. All Harry ever wanted was to be normal, for Merlin's sake. But, as with everything else, bloody Voldemort, or Tom Riddle, or whoever the hell he was, just had to get in the way.
Harry wasn’t some freak. He wasn’t some… sexual deviant, as Uncle Vernon liked to mutter in hushed tones when he got stirred up reading the newspaper. He wanted to be—he was normal—at least in that one area of his life. He wanted to have a family one day, not do whatever it was… those people did.
And to even imagine doing… those sorts of things with the future Dark Lord of all fucking people… Somehow, his already burning face got a degree hotter just thinking about it.
Riddle was laughing again. “Oh? Which girls? Name one girl that you like, Harry.”
As he spoke, he slowly leaned in even closer. By the time he said Harry’s name, Riddle’s lips were almost brushing against the sensitive shell of his ear. The feel of his warm breath made Harry shiver.
“Cho Chang,” he said confidently as soon as he got his wits back about him. “She’s the Ravenclaw Seeker, and she—”
Riddle chuckled softly against his ear. “Really?”
The sudden use of Parseltongue almost made Harry’s knees buckle.
Fortunately—or unfortunately, depending on how you looked at it—he couldn’t actually collapse because Riddle still had him pinned to the wall like a dead butterfly.
“And where is this Cho Chang right now, Harry? Why isn’t she the one you dream about?”
Jutting out his chin stubbornly, Harry tried to call forth Cho’s image, just to prove a point—maybe replace Riddle with Cho altogether. And instead of being in the Chamber, maybe they’d be in some abandoned classroom they'd snuck off to together…
For some reason, though, he couldn’t clearly visualize Cho’s face in any detail.
“Whatever—she’s not here because it’s not that kind of dream!” Harry insisted. “If it were, I could bring her here if I wanted.”
“What kind of dream is it, then?”
“A nightmare.”
Riddle hummed and nuzzled his nose into Harry’s neck. Again, Harry tried ineffectually to squirm away.
“Well, if it’s a nightmare, we should at least make it an interesting one.”
He couldn’t see it, but Harry felt the smirk as Riddle pressed his mouth into the crook of his neck.
“After all, people are going to think there’s something… wrong with you if you keep coming in your pants to a plain old nightmare.”
Harry opened his mouth to protest, but before he could think of an adequate comeback, they were… not in the Chamber anymore.
The abrupt transition from standing on hard stone to standing on soft, uneven earth almost made him fall.
Harry blinked. They were outside. That had never happened before.
The new location made him feel terribly exposed and more than a little disturbed. It was a graveyard, of all places. Harry wrapped his arms tightly around himself as if he could somehow conceal himself from Riddle. From anyone else who could possibly be nearby.
Luckily, it was the dead of night, and Harry couldn’t see anyone else around. From atop a nearby hill, a shadowy old manor house loomed down on them, but there were no lights on, and from what Harry could tell by the moonlight, it was very likely abandoned.
Further on in the opposite direction, he could just make out the dark outline of a church. Something about the shape of the church’s spire tugged uncomfortably at his memory—though Harry couldn’t place why. It wasn’t as though he’d ever been there.
Winding lazily among the headstones like a snake, a fine mist had settled over the desolate landscape of the sprawling, overgrown graveyard. While it was probably technically a bit warmer outside than it was in the Chamber, a cool breeze whistled in the branches of a giant yew tree overhead and chilled Harry’s sweat-dampened skin, giving him gooseflesh.
Everything—the crooked arrangement of headstones, the twists and turns of the great boughs of the yew tree—it somehow felt as though he should remember this place, but didn’t.
“Come on, I want to see something,” Riddle said, not bothering to look at him as he gestured for Harry to follow.
For some wild reason, the way the moonlight illuminated Riddle’s pale skin and dark hair made Harry want to fall to his knees as if in prayer.
Instead, he merely followed on shaky legs, not sure what else to do while Riddle studied the headstones. It vaguely occurred to him that he should try to run, but Harry had no idea where they were. And he didn’t have any money for the Knight Bus.
At last, Riddle paused, and his face lit up in a genuine smile. Harry wasn’t sure he’d seen him smile like that before. It was both stunning and unsettling, given their location.
“There!” He pointed at a particularly large and ornately carved marble headstone.
Harry blinked at it, confused. Tom Riddle, it said. Why—?
“My Muggle father,” Riddle supplied, reading Harry’s confusion. “I’d planned to kill him after the school year ended, and—” He kicked the base of the stone where the date was carved. “1905 to 1943. Evidently, I succeeded.”
Harry wasn’t sure what to say to that, so he didn’t say anything. What could you even say to someone who talked about murdering their own father in the same tone other kids their age talked about finishing their homework?
Riddle huffed out a laugh and waved his hand carelessly as if waving the thought away. “But what am I doing? This is your nightmare, Harry. I would be remiss not to make it worth your while.”
His eyes gleamed as he cocked his head at Harry, expression predatory once more. “After all, I’m sure it took a great deal of that Gryffindor courage to bring me here.”
With disturbing gentleness, Riddle reached a hand up to brush the fringe back from Harry’s forehead again.
“The Boy Who Lived,” he whispered, tracing a long finger over Harry’s scar and making him flinch from the intimacy of the touch. “The wizarding world’s little hero—”
Riddle lifted his wand—Harry’s wand, he noted with a lick of fear—and turned it over in his hands as if he had just noticed he was holding it. Then, eyes locked onto Harry’s, Riddle stroked the length of the wand in such a way that it had to be suggestive, didn’t it?
Harry gulped.
“—about to get fucked by his parents’ murderer.”
“N-no.” Harry finally found his voice. “Stop it!”
He tried to run, but his legs felt like he’d been hit with a Jelly-Legs Curse, and he stumbled and fell backwards, hitting his head painfully on Tom Riddle Senior’s headstone.
Then, as he sluggishly pushed himself up into a seat, Harry caught a strange movement out of the corner of his eye: The letters carved into the marble were rearranging themselves.
I AM LORD VOLDEMORT
Harry blinked hard, but when he looked back, the words had already changed again.
It now said:
HARRY JAMES POTTER
The sight of his own name made Harry’s head reel. Before he could recover, though, Riddle flicked the holly wand at him. “Incarcerous!”
“Let me go, you bastard!” he growled, struggling violently against the ropes that suddenly bound him. The rough fibers dug cruelly into the exposed skin of his arms, burning with every twist and pull.
Fuck, he was tied up, completely at Riddle’s mercy.
Not only that, he was tied to his… parents’ murderer’s… murdered father’s… gravestone? Harry’s head spun like a Sneakoscope—a brainless object that didn’t really understand anything except danger! danger! danger!
Absently twirling Harry’s wand as he had in the Chamber, Riddle contemplated him with mock thoughtfulness.
“Hm, no, I don’t think I will… Do you know why I won’t let you go, Harry?”
“Oh, I don’t know—maybe because you’re an evil prick!” Harry spat at him and missed.
Riddle smirked. “That too,” he conceded amiably.
Stepping in closer, he reached a hand out to card his fingers through Harry’s hair, making his scalp tingle.
“But more to the point…”
Riddle’s fingers suddenly tightened, grasping a fistful of hair and using it to force Harry’s head back until he was looking into his captor’s cold, dark, and utterly amused eyes.
“I think…” he whispered, leaning in so that his lips were just barely grazing Harry’s ear, “it’s because you don’t want me to.”
In the back of his mind, Harry vaguely noticed how Riddle switched back to Parseltongue mid sentence as if he were divulging a great secret. Something meant for only the two of them to understand. The sheer intimacy of their private language made him shudder.
“Do you, Harry? This is your dream, remember?”
Harry could only groan at how forcefully Riddle was pulling his hair. If the sound coincided with the moment Riddle leaned down and sank his teeth into Harry's neck, well, that was purely coincidental.
“I think… you want me to use you… as my little plaything,” Riddle went on breathily in between biting Harry’s neck and throat. With each bite, he sucked the thin skin there in between his teeth to leave a mark of ownership before soothingly laving the spot with his tongue.
“No…” Harry whimpered feebly, his energy to fight quickly being drained.
Pulling back a bit, Riddle released his hair, and Harry’s head instantly fell toward his chest. He wasn’t sure whether he was consciously ducking it down to avoid Riddle’s gaze or if he just didn’t have the strength to hold it up on his own anymore. Before he could figure it out, though, Riddle slipped a single finger under his chin and lifted it back up.
Harry glared with all the defiance he had left in him, but Riddle just gave him an indulgent smile as though he were a slightly misbehaving pet.
“Now… what to do with you?”
As Riddle’s eyes raked up and down his bound figure appreciatively, Harry could feel his heart pounding so hard he was afraid it was going to burst out of his chest.
It’s not my fault, he thought desperately. It can’t be my fault. He’s the one doing this. He’s the one trying to twist things around… trying to confuse me…
“Fuck off, Riddle. Let me go, you ponce,” he repeated for good measure.
Riddle hummed calmly in response, but something dangerous flashed in his eyes as he tucked his, Harry’s, wand away.
If he were anyone else, the gesture might have been reassuring. It was not.
Abruptly, Riddle gave Harry’s hair another sharp tug, holding his head in place with one hand while he opened his own robes and unbuttoned the trousers he was wearing underneath with the other.
“If I feel your teeth, you’ll be living on pumpkin juice and mashed potatoes for the rest of your life,” he said lightly, as though discussing dinner plans. “Bite me, and I’ll choke you on your own”—his gaze flicked down, darkly amused, to Harry’s crotch—“consequences. Understood, love?”
Harry clamped his mouth shut in defiance, but it didn’t matter. Using the hand tangled in Harry’s hair, Riddle pulled his head forward and then knocked it back sharply against the marble headstone, making Harry gasp in startled pain.
“Okay—okay, I get it!” he breathed, trying to sense if he was bleeding or not. It was difficult to tell without the use of his hands.
And fuck, what a weird dream this was. For the most part, his nightmares of Riddle had been hazy and unclear. A muddled blur of bodies grinding together, lips on skin. Harry protesting, yes, but never truly understanding exactly what he was protesting.
This, though—it was so specific. So vivid. So real. It was like watching a memory in Riddle’s Diary. Except, unlike in a memory, Riddle could touch him here.
Harry’s head throbbed from where it had hit the stone, but somehow it wasn’t enough to wake him.
He was just wondering if it was possible to get a concussion in a dream when he was surprised by the head of a very large and very hard cock suddenly pressing against his closed lips.
Eyes blown wide in shock, he reflexively looked up at Riddle questioningly. As far as he could remember, this had never happened in his drea—nightmares before.
A drop of precum smeared across his lower lip, and Harry had to bite back the impulse to lick it away. Idly, he wondered if it would taste the same as his own. He supposed it would, he thought, feeling his cheeks redden again—after all, this was all in his head, and he didn’t have anything else to compare it to.
“Since you’re such a repressed little cocksucker, I’ll help you out.” Riddle’s voice cut through Harry’s muddled thoughts.
If it’s all in my head, anyway… maybe… maybe it wouldn’t be too…
He shook his head, horrified at the direction his thoughts were going. This was Tom Bloody Riddle. Teenage Voldemort. The boy who would go on to start two wizarding world wars, murder Harry’s parents, and nearly murder his best friend’s little sister.
“‘m not,” he mumbled, trying to keep his lips together.
Trying. While his lips didn’t part near enough for Riddle to shove his entire dick in, they did part just enough for the tip of Harry’s tongue to slip past them and unconsciously dip into its leaking slit. The taste was almost sweet, and he—
No. He didn’t—couldn’t—want this.
And yet, his body didn’t seem to care. Heat coiled like a serpent low in his gut, and his own cock twitched with interest, straining against the confinement of his Muggle jeans.
It was messed up. Obscene. What kind of freak got hard for their parents’ murderer?
“Open,” Riddle commanded in Parseltongue—the same as if he were opening the Chamber of Secrets. And, like the Chamber, Harry’s lips seemed to part by the will of Magic alone.
“Good boy,” Riddle praised, and Harry felt oddly dizzy with a sudden twisted desire to earn his approval. “Suck.”
But it wasn’t that he wanted Riddle’s approval, he thought as his mouth was stretched wider than it could comfortably go. Harry just didn’t resist too much because he didn’t particularly fancy getting his teeth Bombarda-ed out of his face—whether it was a dream or not.
A fact which reminded Harry that he needed to be careful to shield his teeth with his lips, even as his mouth was slowly filled beyond what was bearable.
He tried to resist the uncomfortable sensation at first, but it wasn’t long before he was gagging uncontrollably, his throat trying to eject the intruder.
Riddle hissed at him in displeasure. “Relax,” he ordered, touching his fingers to the side of Harry’s throat. A gentle tingle of wandless magic spread from the tips of Riddle’s fingers, radiating through Harry’s tense jaw and throat, and he felt his muscles loosen, allowing Riddle’s cock to slide deeper into his mouth without making him gag.
“There, that’s better,” Riddle murmured, his voice low and slightly rough with arousal. “See how much easier it is when you just let me in, Harry?”
“Stop,” Harry tried to say through the unnaturally large obstruction in his mouth—(Really? Was it even possible to have a cock that big?)—but his mouth was stretched open so far, it came out as nothing more than an unintelligible moan.
That made Riddle’s breath hitch, which in turn made a jolt of perverse, reckless excitement run up Harry’s spine.
Some wild, almost primal part of him wanted to make it happen again. Wanted to make Tom Riddle come completely undone.
Harry rallied up his Gryffindor courage and began to suck experimentally, alternately lapping at the underside of Riddle’s cock and swirling around its head with his tongue.
He had no real clue what he was doing, but Riddle didn’t seem to mind. When Harry looked up shyly to check Riddle’s reaction, the older boy’s eyes were half-lidded and almost hazy with desire, yet still trained on Harry with unwavering intensity.
Harry swallowed thickly around Riddle’s girth as a mix of spit and precum dribbled down his chin. Bound as he was by the ropes, though, he couldn’t do anything to wipe it away.
And the sound it made… it might have been the filthiest sound he’d ever heard.
“That’s it, Harry, you’re doing so well. Such a good boy for me,” Riddle said, meeting Harry’s eyes. Dimly, Harry realized he was no longer gripping his hair painfully, but was gently petting it. It felt nice.
No. Not nice. He was not… enjoying this. He was just doing what he had to do so that Riddle wouldn’t hurt him. No one could blame him for that.
And if he managed to unsettle Riddle a bit in the process—make him lose his composure—well… surely that wasn’t all bad?
A dark look flashed across Riddle’s face as if he’d been reading his mind, and he canted his hips forward, thrusting further in so that he hit the back of Harry’s throat. The relaxation charm certainly helped, but the motion still made Harry squawk in protest as tears started leaking out of the corners of his eyes.
“Gods, you look so perfect like this,” Riddle hissed in Parseltongue, brushing a thumb under one of Harry’s eyes to wipe his tears. With a slight smirk, he brought his hand up to his lips and licked the salty liquid away as he thrust into Harry’s mouth again.
“You were meant to be used like this, weren’t you? Tied up. Helpless. Beautiful.”
Harry reflexively gave him an annoyed scowl—or an approximation of one, given the limitations of his position.
He was not some helpless, weak baby, a part of him thought defiantly.
In retaliation for the implication, he hollowed out his cheeks, sucking Riddle’s cock in deeper until he nearly had the whole thing in his mouth. His eyes burned furiously, tears momentarily blurring his vision, but it was worth it to hear Riddle’s surprised gasp of pleasure.
“No, you’re not weak, my little Gryffindor,” Riddle chuckled softly once he’d recovered enough.
“Because,” he added, pulling most of the way out and then thrusting in deeper, causing a muffled whine to escape from Harry’s abused throat. “I am going to fuck your skull into this headstone for… as long as I like, and you… Harry… are going to sit there and take it, like the depraved little whore you are.”
Riddle’s breath was beginning to stutter, and Harry’s brain hummed with a blissful blankness as he sucked sloppily but enthusiastically, reveling in the way Riddle was starting to lose control. There was a pretty pink flush high on his cheekbones that Harry had never seen before. He wanted, urgently, to see Riddle’s expression—how that flush would deepen—when he finally came down his enemy’s throat.
Though his jaw was aching, Harry doubled-down his efforts. He couldn’t think clearly—all he knew was that he wanted—needed—to make Riddle come…
Well, that, and he needed to somehow find release for his own aching erection.
“Merlin, you’re a mess,” Riddle murmured as he carelessly wiped at the saliva drooling uncontrollably down Harry’s chin with the sleeve of his robes. “Look at you… Your parents’ murderer fucking your pretty mouth over his father’s grave, and you don’t even care.”
Harry knew the words were supposed to mean something… were supposed to make him shrink back in horror, but he couldn’t really process them anymore as Riddle drifted in and out of Parseltongue, seemingly unconsciously.
Desperate as he was for the slightest bit of friction, Harry could only whimper in response as his hips twitched forward, helplessly grinding against the ropes. Ropes which, very inconveniently, did not pass directly over his straining cock. The wanker probably did that on purpose.
“Your mouth feels so good, though,” Riddle went on, his normally smooth, elegant voice getting progressively huskier. “Like it was just made for me. Like you were made for me.”
Riddle’s brows knitted together, the flush on his cheeks deepening. “You are mine, Harry Potter,” he hissed and then let out a loud moan—the filthy, obscene sound of it bouncing off the headstones and echoing through the desolate graveyard.
His pace became erratic, and, before Harry was ready for it, Riddle’s hands clamped down on the back of his head, anchoring him in place as Riddle’s cock twitched and spurted down Harry's throat.
Harry tried to swallow it all down, but he couldn’t; thick, salty liquid spilled from his lips, making him sputter and cough. The taste was briny, like seawater rushing into his lungs, and wildly, he imagined himself drowning in rough, gray waves. With each swell, a miserable little hut perched atop an isolated rock flickered in and out of view—a faint promise of rescue, always just out of reach. He was lost—swallowed by the violent, hungry sea—
Growing increasingly frantic, Harry squirmed against the pressure of Riddle’s hands on his head, but still Riddle would not relent. Panic tore through him, sharp like lightning, as Harry realized if he couldn’t wrench himself free, he was actually going to choke.
Unconsciousness began to tease at the edges of his vision—dots of bright light dancing in front of his eyes from the lack of oxygen—
But then, the strangest thing. Suddenly, the lights began to stretch and twist, weaving themselves together until Harry could've sworn the two of them were enclosed in a great dome, a cage made entirely of golden beams of light.
The last notes of a beautiful, haunting melody lingered in the air, floating like the mist that hung between gothic graves.
Otherworldly. And yet, intimately, achingly familiar. A sound he had heard only once before, in the Chamber, and which wrapped around him, both substantial and not, like the finely woven threads of his Invisibility Cloak.
Swiftly as it had come, though, the scene shifted. The golden cage and ethereal song vanished, dissolving into the mist and leaving Harry disoriented, but able to breathe once more—the chill night air at once sharp and soothing on his sore throat.
And yet, he realized with a start, the graveyard itself was also falling away, headstones breaking apart and sinking into the earth all around them.
“W-What’s happening?” Harry rasped, his voice damningly hoarse.
“Time’s up, Harry,” Riddle said calmly, stepping away as the graveyard crumbled. “I’ll see you again soon, darling. I know you won’t stay away for long.”
Almost as an afterthought, he glanced back and smiled cheekily, dimples showing. “You don’t want to, after all.”
Harry awoke with a gasp, the jarring fall making his stomach drop as his eyes flew open. For a moment, he could only lie there staring up at the dark canopy of his four-poster and panting while he waited for his heart to stop racing.
Thank Merlin he’d got in the habit of casting a silencing charm and a locking charm on his bed curtains before he went to sleep.
It had become necessary when the nightmares had first become a regular, almost nightly, occurrence. There was no way in hell he’d be able to face Ron or his other dormmates if they caught him hissing in Parseltongue in his sleep or, worse, moaning Riddle’s name—fuck.
Fuck.
He was still hard. Unbearably, painfully hard.
Most nights, he awoke from his vague, shadowy dreams of the Chamber to a sticky mess in his pants. Which was unpleasant and embarrassing, certainly, but—
This was worse. Much worse. If he could just—
Harry tried to picture something unappealing. Dudley dancing naked in front of him wearing a tea cozy on his head.
Evidently the relaxation charm on his throat had lifted when the dream ended because the mere thought made him gag.
Before he knew it, though, Dudley and his tea cozy were gone, and Harry was mentally back in the Chamber with his wrists pinned up against the wall.
No. He wasn’t crossing that line from sucking Riddle’s dick in a dream to fantasizing about him in the waking world.
He just had to take care of the, er, problem, and then he’d be able to forget all about the stupid nightmare.
And definitely forget about the insane, stupid, crazy, reckless-even-for-him, certainly immoral and very probably illegal, ‘seriously what the fuck, Harry?’ idea that was just starting to form in his head.
First things first, he had to fucking come, or he was probably going to explode and/or do something very, very fucked up.
So, Harry reached down into his pants, grabbing hold of his absolutely throbbing cock, and tried to think of something normal, like Cho, diving for the Snitch while wearing nothing but her Quidditch gloves, and—
Unfortunately, that made him think of the scene earlier, when he’d made the boggart-Riddle fall off his broom, and that was a very bad train of thought because—
Fuck it. No one had to know. Surely boys his age had wanked to weirder things before. But he absolutely had to get bloody Tom Riddle out of his system as quickly as possible or else—
Knowing full well that he was going to hate himself for this in the morning but not having the energy left to care, Harry let himself be mentally transported back to the Chamber.
And there, the imaginary Riddle stuck Harry’s trapped wrists to the wall with a sticking charm, leaving his own hands free to slide down the length of Harry’s body. Lower and lower he went until at last he had sunk to his knees. Unable to move, Harry glanced down at the boy kneeling between his legs, his dark eyes brimming with lust, his Slytherin green tie askew, and his perfect hair slightly mussed—
And that was all it took. Harry had barely pumped himself twice before he was coming harder than he ever had before, his eyes squeezing shut until he saw stars, his breath stuttering, and his back arching all the way off the mattress.
Before he’d even had time to fully process what, or more importantly, who he’d just wanked to, though—before he’d even cleaned himself off, in fact—Harry’s exhaustion overcame him, and he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
The next time Harry awoke was to a soft light filtering through his bed curtains. And, with the clarity of morning light, he discovered he’d been right about one important thing and quite wrong about another.
He did hate himself for that moment of sinful indulgence the previous night.
It had not, however, made him forget about the insane, stupid, crazy, reckless-even-for-him, certainly immoral and very probably illegal, ‘seriously what the fuck, Harry’ idea he’d had.