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- ᴛʜᴇ ᴛɪᴛʟᴇ ʙᴀɴɴᴇʀ ʙᴇʟᴏɴɢꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴡᴏʀᴋ ᴀɴᴅ ɪꜱ ɴᴏᴛ ꜰʀᴇᴇ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴜꜱᴇᴅ. ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ꜰᴇᴇᴅ ɪᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴀɪ.
.
Harry’s mind could not comprehend what he was seeing.
It was taking everything in him to remain as unseen and still as possible while tied to the tombstone, because he simply could not witness what unfolded before his eyes. His eyes must be deceiving him, yes?
Wormtail—the fucking rat—just had to bring the Dark Lord back to life, yeah?
Couldn’t this man just crawl into a hole and die? He got Harry’s parents killed, and now he had the audacity to resurrect a Dark Lord at the height of his power.
And he even made Harry have front-row seats—bloody hell.
It was a grotesque body-horror spectacle, watching this nightmare take shape in the flesh right before him. Harry watched the body rise from the cauldron, and he felt an unintentional shiver run down his spine.
This looked so, so wrong.
It wasn’t just watching flesh neatly knitting itself together, but also more like witnessing the grotesque fusion between man and snake take place in reverse, starting from the bones down to the flesh, then the skin. Like sitting through some morbid anatomy class. Green eyes witnessed skin stretched too tight over flesh, like it didn’t even know if it belonged there, and it was a milky pale white—the color of Harry’s teeth—just endlessly forming over bright red flesh.
Finally, the horrifying show ended with red eyes flicking open, and Harry saw eyes that belonged neither to an animal nor a man. This was an inhumane serpent in flesh, looking unholy yet immortal.
What in the fuck was Voldemort?
I’m so going to have nightmares over this, he thought bitterly.
The Dark Lord stepped out and demanded to be cloaked, seeming to admire his own body—unlike Harry, he seemed to really like how he looked.
And when he turned, Harry felt an indignant flush go down his cheeks because—of course—Voldemort would like his own features, since it came with not one but two of those dangling down his crotch.
Harry turned away swiftly; no way was he going to give himself an eyeful of his enemy’s family jewels. He had to find a way to escape while the Dark Lord was occupied with his narcissistic self-admiration. He took a deep breath to steady himself back into focus and turned to glance at where his wand had fallen. Merlin, how could he be so careless?
When his eyes flicked over Cedric’s body, he immediately looked past it. Now was not the time to dwell on how that happened.
Cedric, who was alive and so kind to him, was now dead—no, no, NO!
He had to escape. He had to retrieve his friend’s body and leave before this monster noticed he was here. He would not cry for Cedric here—
Harry's thoughts were cut off as he groaned as a strange weightless sensation flooded his body. It felt like someone had just forced him into a plunge on a towering rollercoaster.
What the heck? His vision was spinning, and a surge of deep panic filled his mind as he actively felt his magic draining. What? What was going on here? What was happening to him? Why did he feel his magic core steadily emptying out?
Did someone do something? Did Voldemort—
He snapped his head up toward the monster, eyes blazing with fury—did this man do something to him, and now his magic was leaving him? No, no, no, he couldn’t be losing his magic, not the one thing in his life that had helped him countless times and had always been an ally he could depend on.
Why was it draining so quickly? It hurt. Ugh, his mind felt dizzy from the loss, like an organ in his body was suddenly failing itself.
A sharp intake of breath sounded near Harry’s ear, and it took him a moment to realize it wasn’t from him. Harry flicked his eyes open and saw the nightmarish serpentine who had just resurrected doubled over against the cauldron, groaning in muted astonishment.
Harry was confused by this, but he didn’t even have time to process it when the Dark Lord suddenly shifted from quiet surprise to explosive rage in a heartbeat, immediately shouting at Wormtail.
“You imbecile! What have you done?!” A Crucio shot from Voldemort’s yew wand, and Harry watched with both slight vindictive satisfaction and deep, gut-twisting fear as the rat shriveled on the ground, his voice pleading desperately for forgiveness.
What happened? Why was this man so furious? Was he Bipolar?
The answer came the moment Voldemort abruptly halted his spell and glared sharply at the rat, then looked down at himself in sheer frustration.
“Mast— forgive me… I… what…?” Wormtail rasped.
“Did you not perform the ritual as one told you to, you fool?! What have you done to the runes?!” the wizard demanded as Wormtail scrambled his trembling body off the floor to hastily show the instructions he had followed and the runes surrounding the cauldron.
Ah, something went wrong with the ritual; figures never to trust Wormtail.
Voldemort looked over the runes with single-minded focus before letting out a string of incomprehensible curses in Parseltongue. With a flick of his spidery fingers, a swift Avada Kedavra shot out and struck the stunned Wormtail before the rat even had a chance to plead for his life.
Harry’s mouth fell open as he watched his parents’ former friend’s body collapse to the floor, the same way Cedric’s had when Wormtail killed him. Karma had struck the man so quickly that Harry couldn’t process what had just occurred. Instead, he felt an incoming of a terrible headache.
Why had the Dark Lord lost his temper and killed his follower so suddenly? What was going to happen to Harry now? Was he going to die as his mana drained like an open faucet? Bloody hell, how would he protect himself if he became magicless?
Voldemort wasn’t even paying attention to Harry; he was muttering to himself like the deranged lunatic he was.
He fired another spell at Wormtail’s corpse—a slicing spell?—and the moment he did, Harry felt another painful tug at his magical core, forcing him to cry out, “Stop!”
Red eyes snapped toward the bound boy. “Harry Potterrrr!” An unsettling hiss of Parseltongue eerily filled the air as Voldemort stalked closer.
“The boyy who liveedd…” The Dark Lord sounded so venomous that anyone else in the vicinity would have fled just hearing the man.
Harry couldn’t care less, though. He glared up, righteously furious, and hissed, “What the fuck did you do to me?”
Voldemort’s face darkened as he grabbed a fistful of Harry’s hair, yanking his head back so their eyes locked. “Mind your language, boy. You do not get to demand from Lord Voldemort.”
"Yes, I do!” Harry’s chest burned with fury.
He had been kidnapped, his friend was dead, and his magic was leaking out of him. This was all because of this slimy, serpentine monstrosity in front of him. “You did something—because of you, my magic is draining—give it back… to me…"
Harry hated how weak he sounded at the end, but every syllable rang with desperation.
His magic was being siphoned away by the second, leaving him dizzy and hollow, and he had no idea why. Yes, announcing his vulnerability to his enemy was reckless, but dying wasn’t the fear that gripped him—it was the idea of losing the one thing in his life that always protected him.
If he had to survive as a Muggle, he could—but he would rather die than surrender his magic, even if it meant begging Voldemort to return it.
“What?” the serpentine hissed, his eyes narrowing to lethal slits as he bore down on the raven-haired boy.
Of course, being the bipolar, merciless fucker he was, Voldemort erupted into another violent surge of rage, smashing Harry’s head against the tombstone.
The sharp crack reverberated through Harry’s skull, a fiery pain shooting through his temples. “So this is your fault, boy. What have you done to me, Potter? How are you draining my magic?”
Harry screamed as pain blossomed, feeling the impact of his head against the stone.
He shouted back, “No! I did nothing—it was you! You and this fucked-up ritual. You are taking my magic from me!”
“Shut your mouth, boy. The ritual is flawless; everything was meticulously calculated by Lord Voldemort. One does not make mistakes.”
“Well, guess what you did, because I can feel it! So shut up and fix this!”
Both mages glared at each other, eyes burning with fury, each convinced the other was entirely at fault.
Harry had a throbbing headache right now because every time this man flew into a new fit of frenzy, Harry could feel it as clear as day. This was like a migraine, but ten times worse.
Seriously, did this man have only rage as the default emotion in the amygdala of his brain?
In the lower half of his body, his magic was draining steadily, and the upper half was suffering the most outrageous heat of a brain fever. It made him both dizzy and disoriented.
Damn this man. Damn everything about him.
“Stop it,” Harry hissed.
Voldemort’s glare only intensified it; this man would definitely be able to kill him with his gaze alone. “Stop getting so angry; my head hurts because of your emotions,” Harry cried out as another sharp wave of pain ripped through him.
This goddamn unfortunate 4th year of his, Harry was seriously considering getting a cleansing done; this much bad luck was almost too much to endure.
The pain stopped as abruptly as it came, and Voldemort looked slightly intrigued. “Harry Potter, you can feel one’s mind… how,” a clawed finger poked at him as Voldemort’s eyes widened with a hissing smirk, “ahh, one can touch you now. Your mudblood mother’s sacrifice can no longer keep you safe from me.”
Harry’s mind spun. This goddamn bastard dared to bring his mother into this.
“Keep my mother out of your dirty mouth, you disgusting fuck. She was brave and strong, vanquishing even you. So really you are the mudblood here—ugh."
The Gryffindor almost felt like sobbing when a deep, guttural pain unlike anything before split his brain. That’s it—this was how he would die, from a bloody headache. It hurt so freaking bad he could hear his ears ringing, and even keeping his eyes on the madman in front of him was getting harder.
So being called a mudblood pissed even a great Dark Lord off; couldn’t he use his common sense and think it would set Harry off, too? Especially when he insulted Harry’s mom like this—nah—if Harry got the chance, he would spit it out at Voldemort again.
Let him be mad, let him be pissed—that’s exactly what he deserved, at least for badmouthing Harry’s mother.
Voldemort’s face twisted into a ferocious expression; he murmured a spell that Harry couldn’t properly hear, with how violently his skull was throbbing.
If Harry had thought before that his brain might split apart from the shared, rage-induced migraine, but now he was certain it had outright fried itself and was being cooked alive.
Jesus—fucking—what.
Memories. So many memories.
In a maddening surge of sheer, euphoric agony, Harry watched as though a broken film reel were unraveling, violently flinging every moment of his life back at him.
They tangled, merged, distorted—coming apart at the seams—and it felt as if Harry were being forced to endure that portkey-ripping sensation all over again, except this time inside his own mind. Voldemort wasted not a second, pressing deeper and deeper, clawing through every memory he could seize until he found whatever he sought—Harry didn’t know what—but his mind screamed as he silently begged for it to end.
I should have died. I should have just let him kill me.
It was so unbearably excruciating that his hollow stomach convulsed, threatening to spill itself out through his throat. Every coherent thought was stripped from him as the man essentially violated every memory he possessed—every vulnerable fragment of his life, every pain and fleeting joy laid bare for Voldemort to dissect.
Time became meaningless, and after what felt like endless centuries of mental torment, the Dark Lord finally found what he wanted. With a flicker of surprise—unnoticed by Harry—he withdrew just as brutally as he had entered.
Voldemort stepped back, allowing Harry’s head to slump forward as he gagged, vomiting thin, watery spit, feeling as though he had just been waterboarded.
This man truly was a Dark Lord. Dumbledore had been right—there was only madness inside of Tom. Harry had survived living with the Dursleys, yet somehow this serpentine psychopath inflicted more suffering in mere minutes than his relatives ever achieved in years.
Harry was panting, every muscle in his body taut and screaming with pain, when he heard the man hiss from above him.
“You are, as ever, the bane of all my designs, Potter—forever the flaw that festers in my perfection,” Voldemort murmured, his tone silken with contempt as his tongue clicked softly.
“It is illuminating to finally understand the source of this problem. I, Lord Voldemort, failed to account for one factor alone in ritual for my awakening—”
Red eyes glared down at raven locks. “—It's of your wretched unpredictability.”
“What are you on about…?” Harry rasped. His throat burned raw; he must have been screaming without realizing it while Voldemort tore through his mind.
Voldemort did not answer, choosing to completely ignore him. The Dark Lord paced in a tight circle, bare feet dragging against the floor, his lips moving in a low stream of Parseltongue mixed with English.
“So that issss why the rune failed… yes… yessss… but to correct it— blood alone will not suffice… not Potter’s… shared… it must be shared…”
Harry’s vision swam as he watched the pendulum-like motion of those pale feet. The steady pacing churned his stomach, making him nauseous again.
“Hey,” he croaked weakly. “Stop that.”
“If not blood…” Voldemort murmured to himself. “Then another conduit… another binding medium… what other substance… can one…? But for Magic itself… perhaps… though the cost…”
Still no response.
“Hey— Voldemort…” Harry tried again, his voice barely holding together.
The older mage clicked his tongue, still talking to himself. “How… innnconveeenient.”
Voldemort wasn’t listening to a thing Harry was saying. He continued to ramble in an unconstrained, nearly hysterical dispute with himself. Harry couldn’t make heads nor tails of what sounded like the chaotic fragments of an ongoing monologue.
Harry swallowed against his dry throat, feeling dazed and confused.
What was happening here?
Had Voldemort lost his mind, or had he never been sane to begin with? Definitely not sane. Then what was this— what exactly was he talking about?
Why did this monstrous man actually look… panicked?
Harry unintentionally flinched when blood-red eyes settled onto him, intensely staring him down. “Potter, should you really be relaxing right now?” A sneer made itself at home on pale, thin lips. “Are you not worried you will soon become a mere shell with no magical core to hold its power?”
“Relaxing— You bastard, is that what it is to you? Mind you, I'm very much panicking right now. How can I not when I might lose all my magic? All because you did some fucked-up shit and somehow brought it onto me.” Harry bristled.
“Lord Voldemort never planned for this to happen.” A forked tongue flicked out to taste the air.
“Oh, really? Who would have guessed?” Harry received a hex for his sass; the pain of his core having another sharp pull was far more agonizing than a mere stinging hex.
“Do you even know why your mana is leaking, boy?” Voldemort asked darkly.
“Yes, because of you?”
“Yes and no.” Wow, so he admits it’s his fault.
“Lord Voldemort’s ritual is perfect; one simply didn’t account for you being one’s horcrux.”
“Being a what now?”
“A horcrux, Harry,” Voldemort deadpanned.
Harry blinked owlishly at the man. Was this "hor-whatever" some slur from the Dark Lord's time that he didn’t know of?
Seeing his dumbfounded face, Voldemort commented with disgust, “One is a master of all magics, including soul magic; one has many anchors to this world tied via a ritual that lets one cut their soul to make a horcrux. A horcrux keeps one immortal.”
“Uh-huh, and how does that correlate to my problem?” This man really loved to speak in circles. Harry’s brain was melting; he couldn’t comprehend Tom Riddle’s riddles.
“That night, one came to kill you while you were a mere baby; a piece of Lord Voldemort’s soul cut off and embedded itself inside you, thus effectively making you a living horcrux.”
What?
“Ew, no—what?" Harry made an audible retching sound. “Are you being for real?”
Voldemort raised an eyebrow, looking down at the lion-hearted idiot. “One does not jest.”
Harry gaped in disbelief. “No, you can’t be serious, right? You are telling me you shoved a piece of yourself in my body, and that’s why my scar acts up around you…”
Voldemort nodded.
“Ugh, disgusting. Take it out.”
“One wishes one could do so, Potter." He received a repulsed look from the older man.
"But the situation is dire for both of us. My magic is depleting as we speak, and due to the horcrux bond, one thinks my core is trying to fix the unexplainable depletion with your magical core.”
“So it is your fault.” Harry felt appalled—all that convoluted soul talk just to admit that, at the end of the day, it was this man’s fault.
"No, it’s just an uncalculated variable that appeared in one’s plans.” Uh, still sounds like your fault. Dark lords must be slow in the head.
“I don’t really care. Can’t you fix it with that all-powerful knowledge you claim to have?”
Voldemort paused. The serpentine gaze gleamed over Harry, red eyes tracing inch by inch of the boy. A deep sense of foreboding filled him when he felt the magical bindings untied him from the tomb, letting his body free-fall onto the ground with a thump. “Oww.”
It felt so hard to even try getting up.
His legs felt numb; Voldemort was still towering over him, asking quietly, “There is a way to fix this, Potter. But one does not know if you would cooperate.”
Harry looked up to meet the Dark Lord’s gaze. “What do you mean? You can’t magically poof our problems away?”
“Our magic is draining, if you would be intelligent enough to note,” the older man jeered.
“Yes, so fix it?” Why was this man so hellbent on making Harry repeatedly restate himself?
Voldemort sighed, his noseless nostrils flaring as if he truly were fed up with dealing with Harry. Now that’s offensive, but the feeling was mutual.
“Listen, boy. The Horcrux ritual was always conducted on nonhuman objects—never,” he gestured to the fallen boy, “—on living people. You are a case unheard of, and an incomplete one at that. Lord Voldemort never finished the ritual to make you. Thus, our current predicament.”
Harry opened his mouth to make the obvious comment of yeah, so just complete it, but Voldemort beat him to it and continued, “So unless we perform the Horcrux ritual—a variation that accounts for a living Horcrux—our cores will keep emptying themselves, and before we know it, both of us, within a few hours, will effectively be dead. A mage without his magic is merely a shell without its stuffing.”
A deep shiver of fear ran down Harry’s spine. Death.
Harry would die without his magic.
How come he hadn’t considered that?
It was already so painful to feel his core desperately trying to hold the magic that kept slipping away like grains of sand through fingers. How in Merlin’s name was he expected to keep feeling this for hours until he died? He didn’t want to experience this.
With the horror of the actual situation crashing over him, Harry hissed out, sounding desperate, “Yes, so get on with this Horcrux-whatever ritual. I don’t know what you have to do, but just fix this. I don’t want to lose my magic like this.”
Hearing the desperation in his voice, Voldemort seemed almost pleased, as if he had finally managed to knock some sense into Harry.
“Lord Voldemort is not a man who forces such matters upon others,” he said smoothly. “So one could understand if you feel unwilling. However, this is not a situation where refusal has any place. I do not intend to die here — regardless of your wishes.”
“Forces?” Harry swallowed. “What will you— is this something I wouldn’t want to do? Are you going to make me do something against my will?”
Voldemort’s smile was far too sinister to offer any reassurance.
“It is something you can do,” he replied calmly. “It would simply be… more efficient if done willingly. Easier on us both.”
“Do what?” Harry asked, already half regretting the question.
Voldemort did not answer immediately. He let the silence stretch, suffocatingly sinking into the air, while his gaze traveled slowly over Harry’s face, scrutinizing him where he stood.
“We will procreate, Potter.”
Huh.
Harry’s mind went blank. This headache might just be making him hard of hearing. He definitely did not hear that right.
“…Excuse me?” he forced out hoarsely.
Voldemort merely lifted an eyebrow, as if repeating the bombshell he just dropped was unnecessary. Instead, he turned his wand toward Wormtail’s still-pouring blood, drawing it into the air and shaping it into an ominous, ritualistic circle that pulsed with dark magic.
Pain flared sharply in Harry’s abdomen again at the surge of power, twisting deep enough to make him grit his teeth. At this point, he might as well admit it felt disturbingly similar to being kicked hard between the legs—except it was pain that just didn’t stop.
Pain or not, he had to be sure he’d heard correctly.
“You want us to… have sex?” The words felt wrong—utterly despicable—spoken aloud to his mortal enemy, especially when that enemy barely resembled anything human anymore.
“Yes, Potter,” Voldemort replied coolly. “I’m pleased you grasp things so quickly.”
“No—wait. You can’t mean that. You’re joking, right?” Harry stared at him in disbelief. The Dark Lord suggesting sex as some method to restore his power sounded so absurd that, for a fleeting second, Harry wondered if he had somehow stumbled into one of the scandalous romance novels Aunt Petunia hid in places she assumed no one would ever check.
But Harry had checked. He had even read them—and it had been the unfortunate day he first learned the concept of monsters and monster fucking in that context.
Now, apparently, he was about to experience it firsthand.
The silence in the graveyard grew heavy and oppressive as both mages focused on their thoughts. Voldemort worked steadily, the ritual circle expanding in intricate, unsettling patterns—enough that the dark mage might as well have been summoning a devil with the sheer intensity of it. Harry deliberately avoided thinking about the fact that it was all being drawn with Wormtail’s blood.
Instead, he forced himself to stare at the runes, trying to decipher their meaning, even knowing he wouldn’t understand them.
Anything—anything at all—to keep from thinking about what Voldemort had just told him.
This couldn’t actually be happening… right?
Voldemort cared little for what the boy might be feeling. His full attention remained fixed on the ritual, ensuring every arithmantic rune was drawn with absolute precision.
Incompetent as Wormtail had been in life, it was at least fortunate that his body had not yet gone cold and could still serve one final, useful purpose in completing the circle. Truly, Voldemort often found his followers far more useful dead than alive—unfortunate as that was.
The Dark Lord finished the final markings and scowled as he felt his magic steadily leaking away. Whatever power his core drew from Potter’s body slipped out just as quickly, like air escaping a punctured balloon. With visible irritation, he strode over, seized the foolish boy by the locks of his hair, and dragged Potter roughly toward the center of the circle.
Harry grunted in pain as he was thrown down onto the ground. His mind reeled, spinning unsteadily, and the sick, churning nausea refused to fade. He must have suffered some sort of concussion.
“I—uh… but why?”
The Gryffindor forced himself to cling to what little courage he had left because the situation before him was steadily chipping away at any confidence he would normally carry so easily.
Thankfully, Voldemort at least offered some explanation.
“The Horcrux ritual requires one final act — the offering of something sacred — to seal the object and bind the soul to its vessel,” he said coldly.
“Most often, it is one’s blood. But as circumstances would have it, my blood is essentially your blood. It would not anchor the soul shard properly within your body. Therefore, Lord Voldemort must provide… some other substance to complete the binding.”
“Can’t you just do something else? Like, get it out or something?” Harry stammered.
“There is no time,” Voldemort replied flatly. “Nothing is more sacred than the act of creating life. The essence used for it.”
“But I— I don’t like you like that.” Harry winced at how pathetic his own reasoning sounded, but he needed some kind of protest—any excuse at all. Yes, his magic was steadily bleeding away into nothing, but did he truly have the resolve to endure that with this man in order to survive?
Did he really want his first time to be with the Dark Lord?
Voldemort’s voice could not have sounded more disgusted if he tried. “I despise you as well, Potter. I hate this as much as you do. No one in their right mind would desire you, child.”
Harry flinched, glaring up at him, wanting to snap back—he was quite popular, if he said so himself—but the retort died in his throat as Voldemort suddenly shoved him down onto the cold, unforgiving ground without care.
Harry tried to inch away despite everything, panic tightening in his chest.
No matter how furious he was about losing his magic, was he truly going to let himself be used like this by something that barely even resembled a man anymore? Have sex with the killer of his parents? Just for magic... was he insane enough for this?
Long, clawed fingers pinned him firmly in place, the weight above him a suffocating reminder of what was about to happen. Voldemort hissed for him to stay still, impatience sharp in the sound, threatening him to cooperate so it could be finished quickly.
Without warning or gentleness, he seized the waistband of Harry’s trousers and yanked them down along with his underwear, drawing a startled, humiliated sound from him. Harry struggled instinctively, but he was completely overpowered—the man’s strength was absurd for someone who had only just been reborn moments ago.
Voldemort shifted, settling his weight over him. Harry's thighs pressed together; yet one hand remained braced against Harry’s chest while the other forced his legs apart despite his resistance. Harry tried desperately to press them closed again, but the Dark Lord forced himself between them against his will.
“I will make this brief,” Voldemort said coldly.
Voldemort wasn’t even wearing trousers. All he had to do was shift his robes slightly aside to reveal those two enormous pricks, and the sight alone was enough to sober Harry instantly. Yup, no, he can't do this.
“On second thought,” he squeaked, voice thin with panic, “how about we… rethink this?”
He began struggling to pull himself free.
No matter how hard Harry tried to mentally brace himself for what was about to happen—that he was getting laid right now and possibly having to experience it in the place where a woman should be and having to take it from behind—he could not accept that. One alone already looked impossibly large, grotesque in a way that made his stomach churn.
The man was part monster, part serpent—that much was obvious—but why did it have to look like that, decorated with ridges and lined with unnatural texture? They even looked like they had tiny hooks?!
That was so not normal. None of those things was normal.
“You’re a smart man,” Harry whispered shakily, forcing the words out through dry lips. “Let’s… let’s think this through, yeah?”
His entire body trembled now, wracked with fear at what he knew was somewhat inevitable. He wasn’t going to be able to stop Voldemort with physical strength, given how weak he felt right now. All Harry could do was hope to talk him out of whatever this is.
After all, Harry didn't recall agreeing to this.
There had to be another way; they had a few hours at hand. Could they figure something out right? Maybe tell Dumbledore, maybe Hermione even!
But Voldemort chose not to answer. Instead, he merely watched Harry with cold detachment, one hand moving lazily, pumping his shaft with one hand. It was as if Harry’s panic was of no importance at all. That nonchalant act drew a sharp, humiliated heat into Harry’s face.
Harry forced himself to speak again.
“Please, Volde—"
The rest of the word died in his throat. A muffled groan escaped him as he collapsed back against the ground. Voldemort had silenced him.
This man used magic on him. Goddamn it.
Using a silencing spell on him was unfair—so horribly unfair; he hadn’t even wanted to beg, but he didn’t want this either.
Harry was terrified.
His heart skipped violently when his gaze dropped, and he saw where Voldemort’s eyes were fixed—staring at his hole. The Dark Lord was watching him with a predatory focus that made his skin crawl. His tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth, feeling completely dry.
Was this really happening?
Red eyes darkened with something ravenous, something that made it clear Harry was not being seen as a person at all—only as a means to an end, a tool to be used. Harry squeezed his eyes shut instinctively when claw-like fingers traced against his rim.
Merlin—he was about to be taken by a monster. This is all so insane.
Another sound of pain escaped him, muted by the spell, when Voldemort cast several cleansing spells inside him, the sensation feeling deeply invasive and uncomfortable. Thankfully, it was followed by a generous lubrication charm—otherwise, Harry truly didn’t know how he could endure all this.
There were two of them. Voldemort had freaking two of them.
Was he supposed to take both?
Red eyes flicked briefly to his face, and Voldemort seemed to read what was on his mind.
With grace, Harry didn't know the Dark Lord possessed, the man softly commented, “Lord Voldemort will only use one; relax.”
Harry stared at him, stunned, before giving a small, numb nod.
Yes—just lie there and relax. As if it were that simple. Like it wasn't going to be Harry getting buggered by the older mage.
Lord Voldemort wasted no time.
A strangled noise left Harry as he felt the older mage enter him. It felt like all the air was violently punched from his lungs, and it felt impossibly large—too large. It was uncomfortable, painfully so, sharp and overwhelming, and—god. His cries of pain were muffled, swallowed whole by the silencing spell.
Voldemort groaned with only the tip inside. “Relax, Potter,” he hissed, but Harry’s mind was already spinning in blinding pain.
His legs tried to scramble away from the intrusive hardness, instinctively jerking back, but he couldn’t escape it. It hurt—it hurt so badly. Was this what sex was supposed to feel like? People actually enjoyed this?
Harry lay on his back, feeling impossibly full, stretched around something far too big for him, small broken sounds escaping his throat despite the spell. Voldemort was merciless.
There was no patience, no gentleness, and nothing remotely slow in his movements; once inside, the man simply seized Harry’s hips and hauled him upward, angling him to push deeper. It was already halfway in, the thick length forcing its way past the tight resistance—and even that alone dragged a muffled cry of pain from Harry.
Voldemort closed his eyes briefly at the sensation of the tightness. The boy was impossibly rigid around him, his inner muscles gripping and pulsing with suffocating heat—maddeningly so. The Dark Lord bit down on his lip to steady himself, to keep from losing control and driving forward blindly into that constricting heat.
Voldemort was not a man who indulged in the pleasures of flesh like ordinary humans. He had long ago chosen power over pleasure, wielding unforgiveables as his weapon—and yet here he was, driving into his mortal enemy, the very boy whose blood had fueled his rebirth, pressing Harry into the cold, unyielding ground beneath the fog-drowned night.
It felt darkly poetic.
Potter’s face shifted through a storm of expressions despite his silenced voice, and it was strangely fascinating to watch. Voldemort had never imagined this would be how he would conquer the boy after returning; he had envisioned a duel—but this, too, had its own grim satisfaction, especially when the boy clearly found no pleasure in it.
Harry listened to the man mutter ritualistic incantations while driving into him at a relentless, maddening pace. No matter how fiercely his mind resisted, his body betrayed him—twitching, tightening, reacting involuntarily around the invading hardness, drawing him in despite himself. Harry was unbearably tight and hot inside, and though the muscles resisted at first, they slowly yielded under each persistent thrust.
Harry felt his mind begin to fog over when he finally felt the hardness sink fully inside him. The goddamn lubrication had done little to help—it still hurt like hell. He could feel his insides stretching, straining at the seams to accommodate something so monstrously large. Harry was crying now, silent screams trapped behind the spell, completely ignored by Voldemort.
The older man paused once he was fully buried inside, holding still for several long moments before exhaling deeply as he slowly dragged the length back out.
His grip remained tight on Harry’s flesh as he steadied the boy. Then the older mage set up a brutal pace.
Oh god—
Harry legitimately sobbed.
A flurry of muffled moans, broken cries, and breathless whimpers spilled from parted lips. He had hoped it might grow easier after the first thrust, but it didn’t. It remained harsh and relentless, each movement sending violent tremors through his entire body.
It was reaching a strange point where the pain was twisting into an uncanny sense of pleasure for Harry. Wha— Why—?
Harry wasn’t a masochist… or was he...?
He could feel his own neglected hardness reacting to every brutal thrust. He couldn’t touch himself; everything was too overwhelming, leaving him only able to claw at the ground. Voldemort — this fucking bastard — so uncaring, so unfeeling. Every thrust carved into the boy, etching painfully deep, each intrusion reminding him just how devastatingly far inside Voldemort was.
This shouldn’t feel good. Why did it feel good?
It felt like something inside him was fracturing, splitting apart under pressure. It hurt so, so, so painfully. It felt wrong. Harry hated it — and yet, oh god, why did it feel so good? Why was the agony twisting into some foreign, unfamiliar pleasure? It was unlike anything Harry had ever experienced—like some sharp, torturous high was searing through him. Stars danced behind his eyes.
His own hardness protested, aching for any contact, precum slicking his stomach with every shuddering movement. Harry drew as many deep, ragged breaths as he could, forcing himself to relax just enough to make it bearable. Pain and pleasure warred violently in his mind, each fighting for dominance.
Thank Merlin, he was muted—Harry didn’t want to know the sounds leaking from his throat.
Lost in the storm of sensation clawing at every nerve, it took Harry a moment to register that Voldemort had paused his relentless motion. A strange, unexplainable expression flickered across the Serpentine's pale face. Something almost like emotion wove its way into the blood-red eyes.
Voldemort looked stunned as he saw blood streaking from Harry.
Salazar... Was Potter...
Harry’s gaze followed the Dark Lord’s expression, and he froze slightly, dumbfounded. Why did he stop?
“Harry…”
The Dark Lord’s free hand reached out, tilting the boy’s head toward him. Harry’s mind was so muddled he barely processed the strange unfamiliarity in the voice—the use of his first name—as Voldemort asked, “Are you a virgin?”
Harry nodded, misty-eyed, a little put out. Isn’t it obvious? What was the point of asking that now?
“So… you are unclaimed, Potter,” he murmured, his voice sounding deliberate. The Dark Lord appeared to be having an epiphany of some sort. Harry did not like the way the man was looking at him. It made the boy want to hide away. Could Voldemort just talk less and get this over with?
His silent plea went unheard as the Serpentine continued.
“You have gifted me flesh from your blood… and now you bring me this gift of your sacred purity too… my Horcrux… my Soul. Mine.”
Harry felt an uneasy shiver run through him. He didn’t understand what had just changed or what the man was yapping. The heat that had been building inside him began to ebb, his earlier haze fading into confusion and fear. He wanted to ask, what the hell? — but before he could, Voldemort’s laugh cut through the fog of his thoughts, hissing venomously and feeling horrifyingly vile.
The older man grabbed one of Harry’s legs, hoisting it over his pale shoulder, and angled a fresh thrust into him. Harry’s mind scrambled—what just happened?
Why was Voldemort suddenly moving again?
He cried out as the familiar, numbing intrusion claimed him once more. The sudden angle, the stretch of the new position—it forced the air from his lungs, leaving his stomach twisting while muffled sounds slipped from his throat.
Why did it feel… different? It was the same act, the same motion as before, yet Harry’s body could not understand it. His mind spun, unable to grasp why suddenly all the former painful thrusts were now feeling so much more pleasurable.
Voldemort’s hand didn’t stay idle this time. It found Harry’s slightly flattened length, engulfing it in his large, pale hand. A few experimental strokes later, and Harry’s hardness obeyed again, rising under the deliberately slow motion.
Stop… don’t… yes… oh god… His voice was trapped, silent under the spell, but the sensations screamed louder than any sound he could make. Why did this feel so much better than anything he’d ever done in private? Not even the most desperate bathroom wanks had come close.
No wonder his dormmates and fellow Gryffindors had been such snobs about relationships and intimacy. Harry was missing out on something this crazy. Bloody hell.
The combined rhythm of thrusts and stroking made Harry dizzy, a strange, intoxicated high washing over him, head spinning as if drunk on some potent, unseen liquor. Then, without warning, Voldemort shifted, slamming into a new angle, and Harry’s body betrayed him with a choked, ragged gasp.
What the hell?
The Dark Lord paused, a vicious grin twisting his face, teeth bared. Harry’s stomach knotted; he did not like that expression one bit. He had a bad feeling about this. Then, as if on cue, Voldemort resumed, hammering relentlessly at that impossible spot, driving Harry into a chaotic, delirious mix of pleasure and panic.
What the—oh god, oh fuck, what the—
Harry didn’t get much time to think at all. The pleasure was numbing all his senses, and he was sure he was babbling nonsensical sounds. His hands moved to desperately cover emerald-green eyes as more whimpers and moans escaped his lips. Harry had never been more grateful for the silencing spell than in this moment. The humiliation of already being made a mess by his nemesis was too much. He didn't need to add his strained voice to that.
Still, it was unfair how good this felt. And all of this because of goddamn, bloody Voldemort—the serpentine bastard that looked like he hadn’t even broken a sweat while Harry was a sobbing wreck beneath him.
Spidery fingers kept playing with Harry’s member, and he couldn’t even begin to describe how that felt. Pleasure raced up his spine and pooled hot in his belly. It wasn’t supposed to feel this good—why was it feeling so bloody good?
There were many ways Harry had imagined someone else touching him—usually a girl—and how that might feel… but feeling cold claws graze his flesh, sending sharp electricity straight to his brain, had never been one of them.
I can’t… this… I’ll cum…
Harry wanted Voldemort to stop touching him—Harry didn’t want Voldemort to stop. Why did he even feel scared of wanting this? Oh God, he still felt terrified of what would happen after this. His body was disobeying him; his hips shuddered upward to meet Voldemort’s thrusts, pleasing the older man greatly.
Voldemort’s tongue flicked out as he watched with rapt interest, witnessing lust glazing vivid green orbs.
“You’re doooinggg reaaallyyy well, Harrrry.”
Harry’s eyes squeezed shut, tears spilling freely. The very idea that the Dark Lord was praising him for something like this was so horribly wrong—but he was doing well. Someone was praising him, and it made him dizzy, giddy, even when it shouldn’t, not here, not like this.
Voldemort’s left hand stayed locked around Harry’s leg over his shoulder, while the other, which had been stroking Harry, briefly left his throbbing length, making Harry whine at the sudden loss of contact. Sharp talons moved to graze along the younger mage’s exposed throat, wordlessly removing the silencing spell.
Voldemort wanted to hear the boy.
He wanted to know what sounds his enemy made when breathless beneath him—a toy played for his own amusement. He wanted to hear Harry’s cries reverberate as he took him right at the tomb of his father. How lovely the boy would sound, how thrilling his cries—oh, when he now sobbed so beautifully, tears falling like pearls over warm skin.
Voldemort wasn’t disappointed when he grabbed the boy’s prick again, making Harry’s hips jerk upward as a broken, sobbing moan tumbled from his lips. The boy sounded filthy.
The very ring of his own voice shocked Harry. His eyes flew wide, staring up at the Dark Lord, and the reaction only made satisfaction coil deep in Voldemort’s groin. It didn’t take long for the boy to break—perhaps it was hearing how far gone he was—but Harry's hips shuddered and jerked, moans spilling from his mouth, high and fractured, as he climaxed into Voldemort’s hand.
“Ahh…” Harry whimpered, his mind feeling like putty. Hearing himself cry that way really felt sinful. Never had he imagined such a sound could come from him. But then again… had he ever once imagined the Dark Lord jerking him off?
The Dark Lord calmly rubbed his fingers together, spreading the spend evenly before lifting those fingers—coated with Harry’s own release—toward Harry's lips.
A confused, mewl-like whine escaped Harry. His eyes were still blown wide from completion as he looked at Voldemort in dazed confusion.
“Clean up,” the Dark Lord hissed in Parseltongue.
A mottled flush spread over his burning skin, and he squeaked out a weak refusal. There was only so much humiliation Harry could take, and this—this was not something he would ever willingly indulge in. His mind felt high and floaty; the migraine reduced to a distant throb that left behind only a heavy, fuzzy haze.
Voldemort did not listen to the boy’s denial. With one smooth motion, Harry’s mouth was pried open. With two long fingers pressed past his lips, feeling along his tongue.
Harry found this unbelievably odd—so weird. The taste of himself was murky, faintly salty, and strangely numbing. Harry tried to pull away, but his body was still pinned, leaving him helpless to do anything but give small, reluctant licks along those fingers. He could feel the intense weight of Voldemort’s gaze fixed on the movement of his mouth.
“That’s it, Harry,” Voldemort murmured, his voice roughened at the edges, betraying his nearing control. Harry could only hope he would finish soon—if only so this could end.
Voldemort’s pace quickened, eyes locked on the sight of Harry’s soft pink tongue moving over his fingers, the boy looking deliriously eager yet deeply offended by the act. It was like watching something pure being forced to bend—an angel made to drag itself through sin.
He withdrew his fingers at last, gripping Harry’s hips firmly instead, angling him to thrust deeper into the tight, maddening warmth surrounding him.
The sight before Voldemort was intoxicating. Harry’s body moved helplessly with each thrust, his shirt bunched halfway up to reveal the faintly toned lines of his abdomen—clear evidence of years spent flying Quidditch pitches. His eyes were wide and unfocused, drunk on sensation, his lips damp with saliva, and his hands sprawled uselessly above his head.
No one had ever seen the Chosen One like this.
The Boy Who Lived. The savior of the wizarding world. Dumbledore’s golden prodigy.
And Voldemort was the one defiling that symbol of light.
The thought sent a frantic heat pooling deep within him.
This boy—Harry—was made for this. Made to lie beneath him, to break apart and cry out under his touch like a canary forced into song.
He should keep him. Bind him. Claim Potter fully for his own use.
There was nothing wrong with carnal indulgence if it meant dominating the enemy who had caused him years of suffering in bodiless exile. To torment him, then drown him in pleasure—to watch those brilliant green eyes hollow and melt—
Yes. Voldemort should just take him. Claim the boy like this before Alus Dumbledore and watch the old man shatter as his savior was ruined.
The thought alone drove him over the edge. His movements lost all restraint, turning rough and desperate as he chased his own release, rutting a few final times before spilling himself deep inside the Gryffindor hero.
The boy already looked dazed beyond belief; his youthful resilience must have kicked in, for he had come once more untouched. The boy really was perfect like this.
It finally came to an end. Voldemort inhaled deeply—his release finally bringing him down from his own high.
The runes drawn in blood around them gave a faint, eerie glow, gathering the surrounding mana toward a single point, as though the very air itself was being pulled inward.
And then it happened—
Both mages gasped as magic surged between them, rushing like a living current, as if they had become twin conductors carrying the same lightning through shared veins. It burst behind their eyes in silent fireworks, dazzling and blinding, until for one suspended heartbeat neither could tell where one ended and the other began.
Harry was Voldemort, and Voldemort was Harry.
They were one and the same.
There was no beginning, no end, no light, no dark—only the vast, trembling presence of each other. Their senses blurred and melted together, identities dissolving into something seamless, making them feel frighteningly whole.
They were in perfect harmony. Magic was back, and they surrendered to it, to the dizzying flood of ancient magic pouring through them, filling their cores with the deep, primal pulse.
The Horcrux ritual had completed itself.
Harry felt the high unravel in quiet waves, each breath dragging him further from the blinding peak into a warm, exhausted haze. Now that it was finally over, Harry felt sleep trying to claim him. With all the action—he didn’t even do much aside from lying down, why the heck was he so tired? — Harry could feel his body giving up, but he knew he couldn’t sleep here, not with a giant predator still looming on top of him.
Now that he thought about it, this whole situation was seriously messed up. He had just had sex with the worst dark mage in Britain’s history, and somehow that same man had resurrected and dropped a bombshell on Harry about Horcruxes…
Dark lord Voldemort... Horcruxes... Immortal...
Never mind, he was far too drained to process any of that. He should just ask Hermione to explain the gist and everything later. Right now, his mind felt too loopy and warm to wrestle with complicated thoughts.
Harry shuffled out a soft yawn when Voldemort lowered his leg, laying the boy fully on his back. Harry didn’t really put up any resistance against the older mage right now—he felt as limp as a deflated balloon, utterly boneless, all strength drained out of him.
Voldemort smirked down at the boy, who was already dozing, remaining completely slack beneath him. How would the younger mage react to the Killing Curse right now? Perhaps he would simply lie there and accept it.
The older wizard’s eyes fell upon the trail of blood steadily dripping down from the lightning-shaped scar. Must be an aftereffect of the ritual.
Voldemort pulled Harry’s pliant body closer, and Harry felt the man’s arm wrap around his waist, holding him steady before pressing his own body against Voldemort's. Harry was too tired—and, annoyingly, too comfortable—to open his eyes, but a flicker of curiosity still stirred within him. What was this man doing?
It felt like fog was clouding his thoughts; his body was sluggish even though his heart beat at a rather insistent pace. Harry was basically throwing caution to the wind and nearly drifting off in the madman’s arms. It wasn’t like Voldemort could kill him right away, right? If he had wanted to, he'd have had plenty of chances already. So maybe Harry could steal a little nap right now.
He hadn’t been this relaxed in who knows how long—the tournament had been taking a toll on him mentally.
Harry felt himself teetering on the edge of sleep when his eyes suddenly flew open as something cold and wet brushed against his cheek.
“What in bloody hell—"
A gasp unwillingly escaped Harry, realizing that Voldemort was licking him—that long, forked tongue openly painting itself across Harry’s cheek, tasting the blood on him, cleaning him up with each slow, savoring stroke. What the hell was wrong with this madman—
“You bastard,” Harry hissed, trying to shove the man away with both hands pressed against Voldemort’s chest. Sleep was all but forgotten as rage rushed in to take its place.
Green eyes glared up at red ones blazing like molten lava; Voldemort’s fangs were bared, his tongue slipping out to lap at the remnants of Harry’s blood lingering on his lips. A feral grin warped the serpentine features, and he seemed almost lost in savoring what he tasted, which only creeped Harry out further—because why the hell was this man acting as if he had just sampled some rare, sweet drink when it was Harry’s blood he was licking up like a starved animal?
Harry used the sleeve of his uniform to scrub at his cheek, yet even after wiping it away, he could still feel the ghost of that tongue on his skin. Strangely enough, it hadn’t felt all that wet or slimy—rather, it had been light, almost feathery, which, in Harry’s humble opinion, made it all the more unsettling.
Voldemort’s gaze drifted back to Harry’s disheveled forehead with something like faint longing in it; the blood had been wiped clean now, fully revealing the lightning-shaped scar, its edges looking slightly reddened from the smeared remnants.
“What?” Harry snapped with a glare when he noticed he was being stared at.
“Even our blood tastes extraordinary, Harry.” The voice slid out like a poisonous prayer as Voldemort continued, “The flavor of it… never meant to belong to anyone but oneself.”
Harry could only stare, utterly flabbergasted just hearing that.
“Stop being creepy—and don’t use my first name!”
Voldemort simply ignored the protest, his clawed hand drifting down to drag slowly across Harry’s stomach, making the younger man shiver beneath the touch. With feather-light precision, the claws traced lower, gliding over his navel before pausing there. The Dark Lord’s attention fixed on Harry’s lower belly, almost mesmerized.
Harry shifted uneasily under that intense scrutiny; the look in those ruby eyes was disturbingly animalistic—like a predator poised at the brink of a strike—the narrow slits glinting with unhinged curiosity.
"Fascinating," Voldemort murmured.
Harry gulped, the sound catching in his throat. “What?” he managed, his voice sounding hoarse and unsteady. The older man offered no answer, still motionless, his gaze fixed somewhere low on Harry’s body as though caught in a trance.
Grimacing, Harry forced himself upright despite the sharp protest of his limbs. The storm in his magic core had settled, yes—but that did not mean his body had forgotten the strain. Every movement still felt stiff and so tenderly painful.
He followed that unwavering stare downward—
—and froze.
“There’s—” Harry's breath hitched. “What the hell—”
There was something on his body.
A snake tattoo had made itself at home on his lower half.
A serpent lay inked beneath his navel, its sinuous body curling downward in a slow, enigmatic spiral. The tail vanished into the dip of the belly button, while the head stretched toward the pelvis as if forever descending. Its scales were threaded with faint runic symbols and ritualistic markings, the lines soft yet intentional; it beamed with a faint trace of runic mana as if magic itself were bound permanently into Harry’s skin.
“Bloody hell—what did you do?” Harry demanded, staring in disbelief.
“It was not I,” came the soft reply above him. A long, pale finger traced the mark. The instant it was touched, the tattoo pulsed in answer—as if the faint trace of magic could recognize its master. Harry jerked with a startled yelp at the strange, electric sensitivity of it.
“One believes it to be a consequence,” Voldemort's voice continued, low and reverent, “—of the Horcrux claiming you as its vessel. Even Mother Magic acknowledges our bond.” A pause, heavy with sinful certainty, sounding as though it was a confession made at a church pew. “You belong to me, Harry Potter.”
The words were spoken with unmistakable rapture—sounding awed, almost worshipful, as though this were a gift beyond compare rather than a violation written into the Gryffindor's body.
Harry could only stare at the man like he’d sprouted a second head.
Because how—how could any of that possibly sound good?
The mere thought of carrying a serpent branded across his stomach for the rest of his life already sounded unbearable. The idea of anyone else finding out—maybe Ron, Merlin forbid, Dumbledore—was even worse. Harry could never live it down.
There was no universe in which Harry Potter could willingly explain this to another human being. Not this bloody mark. Not its meaning. Not the humiliating truth of how exactly it came to exist. Of everything that happened tonight.
His scar had already bound him to Voldemort more than he’d ever wanted.
Wasn’t that enough?
How was Harry supposed to have a relationship in the future with this tattoo adamantly reminding him where he got it?
“Take it off,” Harry demanded hoarsely. No—absolutely not—he wasn’t having any of this. The day was already a waking nightmare; he was not about to live with a permanent mark of it staring back at him every time he so much as looked down.
“Not possible,” Voldemort said flatly, sounding rather matter-of-fact.
“Wha— why not? Just remove it! You’re a Dark Lord!” Harry snapped, anger breaking through the raw edge of his voice.
“Even Dark Lords do not overturn ancient magic on mere whim, Potter,” Voldemort said coolly, as if explaining something painfully obvious to a child. It was as though Harry were the unreasonable one between them—when he clearly wasn’t.
Harry’s jaw clenched. “Oh, bloody brilliant. Of course— I should just live with this, huh. You really are a complete bastard— because of you—” He cut himself off with a sharp, frustrated exhale.
Voldemort did not seem bothered in the slightest; he kept staring at the tattoo, looking transfixed, like it were something precious. The attention made Harry’s skin prickle and made him feel painfully self-conscious. Making heat creep up his neck in a slow, humiliating burn.
That's it.
Done. He was bloody done here.
Ignoring the protest of his body, Harry moved to clean up and leave, reaching stiffly for his discarded trousers. “We are finished here, yeah? I’m leaving. Next time you want to kill me, at least pick a more professional setting," he spat. The fact that his first time was in a graveyard will forever be a stain on his life. Harry always thought his cousin's Muggle friends' comments about hooking up at graveyards to be stupid, and now here he was.
Bloody Dark Lord. Stupid Dark Lord. Insane Dark Lord.
If Harry ever made it out of this alive, he would happily lock himself inside Hogwarts for the rest of his life and never come within a hundred miles of this man again—because if he didn’t, he might actually break his own principles and try to kill this man first.
Harry barely managed two steps before a hand seized him and yanked him back down—this time onto the Dark Lord’s lap, his knees pressing the ground on either side of Voldemort’s thighs as he was forced to face him.
Harry’s breath hitched. “What now? Let go!”
“Not so fast,” Voldemort murmured. “Did you truly imagine you could simply walk away from Lord Voldemort, Harry Potter?”
Harry gawked at him in disbelief. Of course, he could—were they not finished?
“What are you talking about? It's done! You got your whatever ritual finished, and I got my magic back—don't tell me you want to kill me right now? Really? Without a big audience to show off your power to? Actually, do your followers even know you’re back? Don’t you need to go appease them or something?”
Yes, Harry was rambling. Yes, he was saying whatever came to mind. But right now he was bone-deep exhausted; he felt like he had run a marathon, and all he wanted was to crawl into bed and pretend none of this had happened. Everything else could burn.
“You are one’s Horcrux… one’s other half. Thus, you are meant to remain with Lord Voldemort.”
“Yeah, sure,” Harry shot back instantly, voice tight with strain, “sounds like absolute rubbish.”
Harry did not care if he sounded rude. He glared, smacking away the hand he felt stroking his hip without even looking. He was not about to let Voldemort touch him again—what had already happened was more than enough.
“So defiant. Did you not enjoy what we shared?” Voldemort purred, slitted eyes half-lidded.
“Do I look like I did?” Harry snapped. He would sooner die than answer to that. He was a proud Gryffindor; his dignity had already taken enough blows today.
“Are you certain, Harry?” Voldemort’s voice slurred softly into the heavy air, crimson eyes lowering to Harry’s thighs, where unmistakable evidence of their coupling still trailed downward in a slow, damning line.
A mortified flush flooded Harry’s face as he looked down at himself. Seeing the proof of a shameful trail that made his stomach lurch the moment he saw it.
It made reality hit him, humiliation settling deep in his chest.
Harry had truly done it. With Voldemort.
He didn’t have time to weep in his mortification and shame when Voldemort’s hands were on him again, cupping his arse. “You—don’t touch me—” Harry hissed, trying to snatch at the wayward hand, but Voldemort didn’t budge.
With his free hand, he pulled Harry even closer, making the boy yelp. Their chests pressed together, heat and tension radiating between them in waves.
“Stop struggling, Potter; one shall be more… gentle with you." Voldemort hissed, his fingers tracing long, deliberate lines along the spine of Harry’s back, sending shivers racing through him. Spidery claws climbed from his lower back to the nape of his neck, threading through his messy black hair and scratching lightly, the feeling being numbing and electrifying all at once.
Harry’s eyes fluttered shut involuntarily, a small, surprised purr escaping as the sharp sensations teased his scalp. For a heartbeat, his body forgot shame and panic; his mind relaxed, and only the scratching and the teasing existed. It was only after the tiny reprieve eased that he fully registered the words Voldemort had said.
“Wait—what did you just say? Gentle for… what—”
Voldemort’s grin deepened, wicked like the Dark Lord he was, offering to forgo a reply to show through action. He pressed Harry closer, and the boy immediately felt the hardness straining against his slim body.
Harry’s eyes widened in shock. “No.”
“Oh yes,” Voldemort said, that shit-eating grin making Harry grit his teeth, desperate to land a punch squarely across that arrogant face.
“You just came,” Harry hissed, disbelief lacing every syllable.
“Lord Voldemort has another that has not,” the older man murmured, far too smug for Harry's liking.
“Fuck no—we already did it!” Harry spat, chest heaving.
He would not go for another round. Tonight had been long enough; the first time could barely be framed as survival. Harry could chuck it down his conscience drain to not feel bad about it or beat himself too much over it. But what about the second? There would be no valid excuse. None.
“Look—you said once. Only once, so no. Stop touching me!” he huffed, frustration and panic tangling in his chest as Voldemort shamelessly continued feeling him up. The dark lord ignored his protests, muttering almost to himself to Harry, “One thinks that you talk too much, child.”
Then the hand tangled in Harry’s hair tightened, tugging roughly and forcing him forward before he could even think to resist.
Their mouths collided in the middle.
It was a sudden, bruising, chaotic kiss. A mashing of their teeth, more devouring than sweet, leaving Harry reeling, trapped in the relentless intensity of the moment.
For a moment, he couldn’t even think—only feel.
Feel the firm grip of Voldemort's hand holding him in place. Feel the way his own pulse hammered wildly, loud and frantic in his ears, as though his body had forgotten which way was up or down.
Then, as he felt a forked tongue lick at his lips—a slow, deliberate glide, almost like a request for permission to enter—Harry's mind finally caught up with what was happening, and rage burned deep in his chest.
How dare this psychopathic, crazy fucker take his first kiss!
It was meant for someone special. Not here. Not like this. Not with Voldemort.
He couldn’t pull back from the kiss; the older mage had his hair gripped tightly. So Harry pushed inward instead. Taking the chance when their mouths parted slightly, Harry bit down hard on Voldemort’s lower lip, intending to draw blood. He wanted to hurt the man—to anger him enough to kill the mood and make the older man lose interest in this entirely.
But the act backfired spectacularly.
The Dark Lord only seemed to grow more aroused by this; a low, pleased sound rumbled from his throat as the older mage took the opportunity to force his tongue inside Harry’s mouth, claiming the space without hesitation. Harry’s mind reeled as the taste of blood—his own—spread between them. The taste of heavy copper somehow only seemed to excite Voldemort further.
This bloody bastard—why was he getting more worked up?
The sensation of the forked tongue was nothing as he had imagined. It wasn’t a single warm pressure, but two cool, precise points moving at once—a strange doubled touch that sent sparks skittering along his inner nerves. It felt alien and unsettling as the split tips slid against his own tongue, tracing, tasting, and exploring every corner of his mouth.
His hands shoved harshly against Voldemort’s chest, but the resistance only drew a deeper reaction. The kiss intensified with the dark lord unyieldingly—like a claim being pressed straight into Harry's mouth.
The longer it lasted, the more dizzy Harry's mind became, thoughts slipping apart into scattered fragments of heat, panic, humiliation, and breathless confusion.
When Voldemort finally felt satisfied enough to pull back, he didn't give much space. Just enough for Harry to drag in a shaky breath, their foreheads nearly brushing as warm air passed between them in uneven exhales.
Harry stared at the older mage, wide-eyed and flushed, looking utterly wrecked—yet his green eyes still burned with furious defiance.
And that sight only made Voldemort’s expression turn more feral.
Voldemort wanted to devour the boy.
This child was meant for him—fashioned, it seemed, by fate itself to be claimed. The prophecy no longer held any weight against Voldemort; its power had withered into irrelevance.
Harry’s very existence now belonged to the Dark Lord.
The mere sight of Potter was proof of it: the lightning scar carved by his own wand marked the boy as irrevocably his nemesis; the fragment of his soul lay nested within the child; the boy’s blood flowed into his own veins.
And now, through the sanction of magic itself, even his body stood bound to him, branded under the ritual’s marking—irrefutably Voldemort's.
It made the Dark Lord itch to lay more territorial marks onto the child. To make even the boy’s private thoughts unable to forget their coupling.
Potter’s every first belonged to him.
Harry Potter was a rare creature—a forbidden sweetness crafted precisely to torment the Dark Lord's senses. He was like a ripe fruit hanging heavy on a poisoned vine, too intoxicating to ignore.
Every detail of him radiated an almost narcotic allure: the defiant lift of his chin, the burning anger in his eyes, and the stubborn Gryffindor courage that clung to him even now.
He drew attention the way a flame summons moths—irresistibly, with the promise of both illumination and ruin.
Oh, how Voldemort wanted the boy's flames to burn only for him.
There was something perilously captivating about tasting the boy; he was like the scent of night-blooming flowers—beautiful, dangerous, and impossible to forget once inhaled. To behold Harry was to feel a hunger stir—an insatiable desire to make a home in the boy.
The first claiming had been a necessity, an act meant to secure Voldemort’s power and ensure survival. There had been no indulgence in it then, only the rush to complete the ritual.
But now—now with his core thrumming with powerful dark magic. With it coursing through him like a relentless tide. Voldemort could, at last, turn his full attention to the prize before him—to savor the taste of the youthful savior.
Alas, the only frustration that shadowed Voldemort’s desire to savor the meal before him was that Potter would not remain still.
He strained and twisted endlessly, trying to get away like a startled fawn trembling at the sight of a predator—all instinct and restless flight, every nerve urging the boy towards escape. Yet the more Potter struggled, the more it stirred something possessive in Voldemort, a tightening coil that only made him want to bite down onto his prey faster and more securely. Allowing them no means of fleeing.
His hand remained clamped around the boy’s hips, an unyielding grip that denied Potter any freedom to pull away. Voldemort's gaze fell to Harry's clothing, yearning to see more warm skin beneath the offending barrier of thin fabric that dared to separate him from what was rightfully his. He sliced through it with a subtle flex of his claws. The ripped fabric slipped away in soft ribbons, drifting downward like petals shaken loose from a dying bloom.
A startled, horrified squeak broke from Potter’s throat—an involuntary cry that carried more outrage than fear.
But before the boy could catch his breath to object, Voldemort closed the gap between them with ease. The curses that were forming on Potter's lips were swallowed before they could find a voice when their mouths met again in a not-so-gentle kiss.
The boy’s mouth tasted warm—hot and unsteady—carrying the salt of tears from all the sobbing Potter did. It was that fragile warmth that held Voldemort there, unwilling to withdraw, returning again and again until the space between them tangled with uneven breaths and exchanged saliva.
Potter's face flushed, overheated from the lack of oxygen.
A godly being such as Voldemort did not need to breathe the way mortals did, but the boy could only endure so long before his lungs began to burn.
Potter kissed like an amateur. It was obvious he had no experience at all—his fingers clutched desperately at dark robes while helpless, mouth-watering sounds slipped out unguarded whenever the Lord’s forked tongue traced a new angle inside his mouth.
For all the defiance that burned so fiercely in those green eyes, the boy melted so easily under kisses. It made older man smirk inwardly.
When Voldemort finally drew back, he found those eyes shining like fractured glass, bright with unshed tears that clung stubbornly to the lashes—and the sight stirred great satisfaction through him.
Good. Even after years spent bodiless, he still possessed enough skill to make the Chosen One fall apart from mere kisses.
His gaze lingered a moment longer at the swollen mouth before drifting downward. Licking his lips slowly, the older man lowered his head, following the vulnerable line of throat and collar, where the skin lay pale and unmarked like untouched parchment.
Voldemort hungered to eat what he considered a fit appetizer—Potter's unmarred skin. His mouth began trailing downward along the boy’s throat, drawing sharper moans and startled gasps with every deliberate nip and sucking bite he left behind.
It was almost a pity he had silenced the young mage earlier—otherwise, the Dark Lord could have enjoyed far more of those sounds the first time around.
Sharp fangs ensured no spot remained untouched, leaving deep, uneven marks pressed into virgin skin. Each one was placed with careful intent—in places far too visible to hide—so the boy would never be able to pretend this had not happened.
A thin, strained sound slipped from Harry when a particularly sensitive spot was found—a point near his collarbone—as instinct drove the raven-haired mage to pull closer, hips grinding faintly against the Dark Lord.
Voldemort found that reaction wonderfully fascinating.
What a lethal thing the boy was. A burning fire wrapped up in flesh, full of defiant resistance, locked in an unwilling struggle to give in.
What a delight it was that the Dark Lord alone could savor this. He was the only one to have Potter’s first—and only he could be Potter’s last.
No one else would ever have the boy like this. Anyone who tried would perish beneath his wand.
Even so, Potter’s voice did not entirely fail him.
“You bastard…”
Even now, unsavory words slipped from the hero’s mouth—something Voldemort noted with amusement, already deciding it was a habit that would need correcting if this were to become a recurring matter.
“How much more pleasant it would be,” Voldemort murmured between kisses pressed along the boy’s skin, “if you confined yourself to making those lovely sounds instead of speaking.” One hand slid into Harry’s hair, to tilt his head back and expose more of the vulnerable line of his throat
Harry recoiled as far as the hold allowed, forcing his gaze open with stubborn fury. His eyes burned bright despite the sheen of moisture clinging to them.
Bloody fucker—was he a snake or a leech?
“Stop it." Harry snapped, his voice sounding strained. "I don’t want this."
“Ouh Really…”
A slow smile curved across Voldemort’s face, his hand sliding from Harry’s hip to lightly scratch over the younger mage’s member, already stirred with arousal from the closeness between them.
“One should always be more honest with oneself, Harry.”
Harry's ears flushed. Making shame burn viciously in his gut.
It wasn’t Harry’s fault he was reacting—it was this man’s fault for pushing and pushing, for forcing desire out of him when Harry had already said no. Voldemort was a ravenous beast, taking and taking from him without ever listening.
Harry was still young—of course, he had no experience with any of this; of course, his body could be tricked into responding to touch. This was all bloody new to him.
It had nothing to do with the fact that this was Voldemort he was tangled with. That the freaking Dark Lord and he were snogging at a graveyard—nope, don't think about that.
None of this had anything to do with Harry, but everything to do with his inexperience.
At least, that was what he would tell himself when he tried to sleep at night.
Because even as anger burned fiercely inside Harry, every touch, every bite, and every kiss pressed against him sent a restless heat coiling deeper inside his teenage physique. Lighting his nerves like sparks along dry kindling.
The Dark Lord was not slow or gentle in his pursuit—the older man’s mouth moved with a craze, teeth marking every patch of skin left exposed.
A bloody vampire—that's what Voldemort was.
The growing constellation of bites scattered across Harry’s body left him burning with mortification. Just how long would these take to fade?
Voldemort showed no sign of stopping. His gaze lingered on Harry’s chest with a strange, consuming hunger that made warmth pool uneasily in Harry’s stomach.
Bloody hell.
Why was he acting like some wet fanny?
Harry was a Gryffindor. A proud, stubborn, and courageous mage. He had faced cursed teenage books, flown with dragons, and slain a centuries-old basilisk.
Harry would not simply lie still and be taken from.
He would ruin Voldemort's relaxed mask. Harry would fight back.
With this sudden bout of resolve, the boy wrapped his arms around the older mage, dragging the man closer under the guise of yielding—only to twist enough space to pull at the man’s robes and sink his teeth harshly into the white shoulder.
Voldemort groaned—a low, startled sound that Harry felt reverberate through their bodies.
Harry did not hold back in his assault. Each bite carried all of his anger, shame, and humiliation. He would leave the Dark Lord marked—mar that pale, perfect canvas with his own stains of red.
If Harry was being turned into a bruised mess, then he would make certain the other side bore scars as well. Every bite the Gryffindor delivered was meant to break skin—to leave marks as deep, as ugly, and as lasting as possible.
He wanted the man to feel humiliated too.
Instead Voldemort looked freaking thrilled.
The fury Harry expected never came. Instead, the man seemed almost purred when Harry angerily grabbed his bald head and wrenched it away from his shoulder, only to drag Voldemort forward to smack his mouth against those thin, almost nonexistent lips.
Harry began to kiss without grace, his inexperience obvious in the clumsy way his mouth moved—but Voldemort did not seem to mind. The Dark Lord responded with unsettling enthusiasm, forcing his forked tongue forward, trying to seize control of the exchange.
Nope. Not letting that happen.
Harry surged upward, hands tightening around the pale column of Voldemort’s neck, forcing the man to tilt back and meet him on Harry’s terms instead. There was nothing gentle in the gesture, only stubbornness in the act because Harry didn’t want the older man leading.
Harry made sure to shove all the blood mixed with saliva in his mouth down the older man’s throat. If Voldemort wanted Harry’s blood so badly, then the man could choke on the taste of it himself.
There was nothing elegant in the way they kissed. The more they were onto each other, the more it grew rough and chaotic. It was somewhere between being gross and hot. It felt unbearably filthy.
Harry kind of liked it.
He did not have to hold back with this man. Harry did not need to be nice.
Harry leaned into the fury, into the strange clarity that came with abandoning all restraint. Why even hold back against a monster?
Voldemort was a bastard—so Harry would treat him as such.
The raven-haired boy bit down again and again on the lower lip until the Dark Lord’s mouth was left darkened and bruised. This was all this man’s fault to begin with. Voldemort should only blame himself for how much Harry will leave him looking ravaged. Even when blood and spit smeared between them, trailing down their chins as they broke apart for air, minds hazy and breaths ragged, overwhelmed by the immediacy of sensations, Harry Potter could not stop.
“Precciousss boyyy…”
And when Voldemort murmured those warped endearments straight into Harry’s mouth, long spidery hands roaming over his heated skin, the Parseltongue hiss curled low and intimate, sounding far sexier than Harry ever remembered the language to be—
It nearly drove the Boy-Who-Lived insane.
Well…
At least, Harry could simply go and blame all of this on being in the heat of the moment.
Seeing that Voldemort was still clothed, Harry felt a bit irked.
"Take it off," he whined into their kiss, tugging at the Dark Lord's robe.
Voldemort raised an eyebrow and loosened his robe just slightly. Harry, seeing his chance, took the inch the man gave and stretched it to a mile, digging his nails into the pale-toned, white back and leaving bright red scratch marks.
Apparently, this was a turn-on for the man, who completely removed his robes, letting Harry's hands then flutter all over the man's back, leaving more and more scratches as deep as his nails could dig.
The Dark Lord didn’t remain idle even as the little lion played.
Voldemort’s roaming hands had found their way over to Harry’s nipples shortly after they kissed. White claws grazed the tender buds, earning a sharp, breathless gasp from Potter.
Dark ecstasy flooded Voldemort’s system when the boy made the most adorably confused expression at the way Potter's own body reacted.
Salazar, what a precious, pitiful, darling creature this boy was.
Red irises lingered on the soft pink buds, and he felt his mouth salivate at the thought of tasting them—another part of the boy no one except the Dark Lord would ever claim.
His warm, forked tongue latched onto Harry’s chest, sweeping over his nipple while Voldemort ensured his hand toyed with the other. They were small and did not take long to grow stiff and swollen beneath the older man’s coaxing and probing, deepening from a gentle pink into a lush shade of cherry red.
It tasted as good as the Dark Lord had hoped, his tongue lapping over every part of the boy’s nipples, earning beautiful, helpless moans from Potter—the boy tugging him even closer to his chest with every languid lick.
Voldemort felt pleased but did not stop at licking one side, making sure to do the same for the other as well. Scattering small bites and lingering kisses even across this sensitive part of Harry. Briefly, he wondered if he could simply bite them off the boy and chew on them, knowing they would surely taste even better—but Potter did not seem like he would share the sentiment.
Harry felt he might as well call himself whorish with the noises he was making.
He remembered that at the start of term, the boys around him all gushed about how easily they could excite their girlfriends by sucking on their chests and playing with their nipples; Harry had admitted he was disturbed by the idea, although abit curious.
How could touching someone’s chest possibly make them feel good?
Then, during a late-night wanking session, Harry had tried to touch his own nipples. But only once, out of pure hormonal curiosity, but it didn't feel like anything at all, and he just felt ashamed for even contemplating it. He had since then just chosen to masturbate instead. Even promising himself never to try the act ever again.
Oh, how bloody wrong Harry had been.
It felt incredible.
He had never explored his body this much before. But the sensation of a mouth both warm and eerily cold, the split tongue working sinuously around his buds, was far too stimulating, sending waves of heat rushing down to his neglected hardness.
Harry should offer apologies for judging those boys somewhere in the back of his mind.
Oh god…
When Voldemort pulled away with a loud, obscene plop, more heat shot into Harry’s belly, his blush flushing all the way down his neck.
Fuck—Harry might just come untouched from these acts alone.
Why had no one told him snogging felt this amazing?
Harry would have just gotten into a relationship earlier in the year if he had known making out someone else was such an overwhelming experience. Maybe then his partner would not be the Dark Lord right now—but would it have felt as good as it did in this moment?
Harry felt a sharp nip at his ear that yanked him back from his dazed musings.
The Dark Lord had begun slowly guiding him back onto the ground so he could blanket the younger mage beneath him.
“Ah—wait, no—” Harry squeaked.
Voldemort paused, inquiry glinting in blood-red eyes, though Harry could see the intense madness coiling within them, threaded with barely concealed hunger.
“I don’t want to lie on my back—the ground is fucking hard and cold, I don’t like it,” Harry hissed.
He still remembered how uncomfortable it had been the first time; it had hurt his back. Couldn’t they just do it on the Dark Lord’s lap or something? Hell, Voldemort should lie down and let Harry be on top instead.
But of course, the Dark Lord wouldn’t be the Dark Lord if he allowed something so minor hinder him.
Voldemort pulled out his yew wand, instinctively making Harry flinch at the sight of the pale wood, and aimed it to transfigure one of the shredded pieces of Harry’s shirt into a long, beautiful silken sheet. It unfurled itself gracefully for Harry to lie upon.
He did not stop there, transforming few more scraps into soft pillows for the boy’s head. Harry gasped at the powerful display of wordless magic.
Goddamn—just how strong was this man?
Harry could not even transfigure a chair properly, and here was Voldemort displaying such effortless mastery, mimicking the delicate softness of real fabric without uttering a single syllable.
Unfair bastard.
Harry could see exactly where that massive ego came from.
A spidery hand pressed against Harry's chest, pushing him down onto the smooth silk sheet. The contrast of cool fabric against his overheated body made him moan in relief. This was such a bloody upgrade.
Voldemort felt a dark, unmistakable smugness watching Harry laying against the sheets. The boy's hole clenching around itself as the Dark Lord's seed remained inside him.
Voldemort's member throbbed with need, a deep want to drive himself back into the tight heat between Potter’s legs—to feel their magic harmonizing, the way his soul called back to him through their connection.
It was a dark, all-consuming desire that sank into his mind like barbed roots and refused to loosen its hold. How Voldemort craved that sensation again—wanting to feel that sinking pull of their souls once more.
He wanted Potter. No, he needed Potter.
The Dark Lord's teeth itched with the kind of intensity he felt only when hunting his enemies. Feeling the deep surge of emotions that usually came from torturing fools for his entertainment.
Voldemort might very well get addicted to the boy.
Harry, upon noticing where the man was looking, immediately blurted out, “No. Nope. You will not be doing that again.”
The Dark Lord glared down at the sprawled hero.
How dare Potter believe he had the authority to deny him what he rightfully deserved? After stringing the older mage along like an minx, the boy now wanted to back out—
“It hurt like crazy and didn’t feel good,” Harry added bluntly with a pout, grimacing at the mere memory of the experience.
Voldemort blinked owlishly. Ah.
So the problem was pain.
“Lord Voldemort will not hurt you, child. You need not fear pain," the Dark Lord smoothly promised.
Harry looked unconvinced. Propping himself up on his elbows, he gave the man a very clear I don’t believe you look.
“Yeah, you also said you’d make it quick, too," Harry shot back. "Look how that turned out. I don’t think your dictionary even knows what ‘not hurting’ means. So no.”
As if to reinforce his refusal, the boy tried to draw his knees together. The Dark Lord scowled in irritation, grabbing hold of the unruly thighs and forcing them apart.
“Lord Voldemort does not make empty promises,” the mage hissed, clawing his fingers lightly along Potter’s thigh, sending small shivers through Harry’s body. “You will find that it feels enjoyable.”
The boy pressed his swollen lips together, clearly conflicted—torn between the instinct to avoid pain and the tempting promise of pleasure.
Although Harry felt dangerously inclined to think with his lower body and give in, the memory of how much it had hurt remained vivid enough for him to force out a final, firm:
“No.”
Voldemort growled, red eyes flashing darkly down at him. Harry, oddly enough, didn’t feel afraid. It was almost absurd, considering he was nearly naked beneath the most dangerous man in Britain.
Was Voldemort really going to fly into a rage over this? Because Harry didn't want to let him hit it?
The thought was bizarrely hilarious—the mere idea that after everything between them, he might die over something like not consenting to physical intimacy, out of all the other valid reasons he could be killed for.
Surprisingly, the man still didn’t erupt in a fit of anger. Almost making Harry wonder if the natural rage-baiting skills in him that made many Dark Arts professors have the Gryffindor on a hit list had somehow grown less potent tonight.
Although why the man wasn't furious yet was curious. But the dark mage’s feral smirk, followed by him bending his body close to Harry's prick, was not a curious phenomenon.
"Oi," Harry warned sharply, noticing the man's head almost nuzzle close to his hardness.
Voldemort was not about to do what Harry thought he would. That would be bloody madness if he was.
Harry’s assumption proved to be correct when the man hissed in a deep, pleasant purr, “You should consider yourself fortunate, Harryyy.”
Voldemort spoke the words in Parseltongue, making Harry speculate if the man already realized the chosen one could understand snake hisses.
“Lord Voldemort rarely offers mercy—and yet here he is, willing to… assist you in changing your mind.”
And with that line, the serpentine man opened his mouth—no, unhinged his jaws in a way no human could ever do.
The forked tongue effortlessly extended—my goodness, was it that long? —and enveloped Harry's member into an open mouth with ease.
Harry keened.
His mind blanked for a moment before sensation dragged him back to reality as Harry felt the long, flexible tongue easily work in a wide, slithering motion.
"Fuck—Agh," he cried, his hand moved instinctively to grab the serpentine mage’s bald head, unsure whether to push him away or pull him further in. The fucking Dark Lord was giving him head and it felt freaking amazing.
Words were completely failing Harry. Shit, god fucking damn. How the fuck would he describe this—who can even begin—
How did Harry even think stopping was a good idea—
Crazy, crazy, crazy—
Harry's fingers flexed around Voldemort's head hard, as if doing so could make him not want to cum right away. He didn't want to embarrass himself and finish early.
Voldemort looked up, his burning red eyes gazing intensely at Harry’s expression of overwhelming pleasure. The older mage hadn’t even properly begun, and the boy already looked close to release.
How precious.
He playfully graced the shaft with his fangs—not enough to harm, just enough to sting—causing Harry to threaten instantly.
“Don’t you dare bite—”
Green eyes burned with delirious want. “Bite, and I’ll smash your head in.”
The older mage snorted softly at the threat that lacked any flair. He would allow this disrespect just for of the tantalizing sight of Potter alone.
Voldemort waited, allowing Harry a moment to catch his breath before he began to earnestly work his mouth.
Potter was not small by any means, but he was far smaller than the Dark Lord, and with the way his new body worked, it was effortless for Voldemort to take the hard length fully in one swipe. Slipping up and down the length easily, meeting the base.
“Oh yes, yes—don’t stop,” Harry cried out, his voice spilling into embarrassingly filthy sounds. At this point, Voldemort should simply cast another silencing charm on him. Harry didn’t want to know how much more obscene his own voice could become.
The Dark Lord felt consumed by the taste in his mouth. It was divine; the drops of essence from the boy melted on his tongue like soft candy that had dissolved into liquid. Harry tasted sweet, impossibly pure, and so perfect it almost ached—as though his mouth had no right to cradle something so heavenly.
It didn’t help that Harry kept singing such beautiful, broken notes. With a tongue as skillful as his, Lord Voldemort had no difficulty drawing Harry closer and closer to the brink of release. And as much as the older man would have relished savoring the boy’s essence—
He had to deny himself. For now.
Harry cried out in dismay as he felt himself nearing the finish, only for the Dark Lord to pull his pleasure away at the last moment.
“Ugh… why— wh’y d-did you sssstop?”
Potter was crying, which positively thrilled the older man. Watching emerald eyes shimmer with tears, bright as jewels against pale light, was an image Voldemort knew he would revisit often. Ah—if he kept the boy for himself, he would not need to rely on memory alone to satisfy his cravings.
Instead, with Harry openly available, Voldemort could readily make him cry again.
Seeing Voldemort refuse to help him finish—choosing instead to rise onto his knees and gaze down at him—made Harry desperately reach for his own aching hardness, intent on completing the task this infuriating man had abandoned. He wanted to come; he wanted release so badly—the throbbing between his legs hurt.
Spidery, elegant fingers closed around his wrist, stopping him. “Now, now, don’t rush, child.”
Voldemort pressed a slow kiss into Harry’s open palm. “Turn over, my soul.”
The implication was clear: if Harry wanted to come, it had to be when they did it.
Harry choked on frustrated tears. “I truly hate you, you bastard.”
Voldemort grinned. “I know, darling. Now turn.”
Harry allowed himself to be manhandled across the sheets, his body settling onto his stomach. The moment his sensitive length brushed the soft fabric, he groaned, the sensation almost unbearable, hips buckling as he instinctively ground against the friction.
It earned him a sharp smack on his arse; Voldemort clicked his tongue. “Patience, Harry.”
Harry whimpered into the soft pillows. “Evil bastard…”
The older man graciously reminded the boy that Lord Voldemort was indeed evil—though not quite a bastard.
The Dark Lord felt his own seed within the boy sould suffice as lubrication enough, but he had promised the younger mage that he would make it not hurt. So he cast several generous lubrication charms, followed by another spell meant to ease the boy’s body further. It ought to assist the boy in taking him fully. Next time, the Lord vowed he would put both his shaft into Potter.
Large hands gripped Harry’s hips, lifting the boy until his lower half arched invitingly into the air, giving Voldemort an easier angle. He traced the curve of the boy’s cheek—firm, warm, and exquisitely pleasant beneath his touch. Potter was truly made to be held.
Sensing the boy’s rising impatience through their connection, Voldemort delayed no longer. He slid forward in one smooth motion, entering the trembling heat.
Potter was tight—the Lord had noted it before—but now, with his senses flooded by desire, everything in his mind narrowed only to the sensation of how Potter was: so hot, so wet, and suffocatingly tight around him.
For a moment, Voldemort feared he might lose control immediately when those muscles clenched. He wanted to ravage the boy in mindless madness.
The disparity in their physical sizes struck him hard once again—how much smaller the boy was—and the thought sent a dark thrill through him. It was almost a shame he rarely indulged in fleshly pleasures; Bellatrix had never come close to this. His other bedmates were never this good either. Perhaps it was simply because it was Potter that the older man felt such desire. For Potter who carried a fragment of his own soul, thus stirring in Voldemort a ravenous, devouring need to own.
The instant Voldemort was fully seated inside, it felt as though explosions burst behind his eyes.
Being within Potter was overwhelming.
Unlike the first time, their bond now looped sensation between them—Voldemort could feel, deep within himself, how full Harry was and how fiercely the boy craved this. The boy wanted the Dark Mage inside just as much as Voldemort desired Potter.
As his senses returned, the older mage's ears filled with a symphony of whispers, breathless moans, and soft, desperate pleas to move already.
How could he possibly refuse such a request?
Voldemort obliged his darling soul.
The Dark Lord dragged his length against the boy’s inner walls. He had intended to go slowly, to make Harry feel each and every pull, but hearing the wet, obscene sounds accompanying the drag of his length sent tight heat shooting straight into his prick. Instead of savoring his pace, Voldemort began thrusting with sharp snaps of his hips, setting a rhythm that was punishing, and yet Harry seemed far too lost to care.
“Look at you, darling boy,” Voldemort couldn’t help praising. Every time he looked at Potter, all he saw was perfection.
The older mage knew he was far too large for Harry’s small hole, and yet, in the back of his mind, he reveled in the knowledge that Potter would feel him for many days after this—that every ache in the boy’s thighs would bring Lord Voldemort to his mind.
“Harry… can you feel Lord Voldemort?” He murmured, his voice silky and trembling, punctuated by a faint hiss.
“Preciousss boy… sweet, perrrrfect thing. How exquissssitely you yield... You were ssshaped forrr thiss—for kneeling beneath mee... minee.. Doing ssso very gooodd… how you please me...” Voldemort's thin lips brushed the words out roughly, reverently, mingling soft Parseltongue with English.
“Can you feel it? The way one claims you… The way Lord Voldemort makes a place for himself within you? Nothing inside you will eeever remain the ssame... You will alwaysss know your lord was there, Harry… always... precciouss.. know that you belong to me. Mine—mineee, all mine.”
Harry moaned and cried, tears leaking from his eyes.
The older mage’s member was too thick and too heavy inside him; he could feel it pressing deep within, making a visible dent against his stomach. Every time he peeked between his thighs, he saw the distorted outline of something lodged inside his body.
The overstimulation bordered on being almost painfaul, even with his hormones translating everything the man did—touches, bites, even the merciless tugging of his hair—into pleasure. Every time Voldemort bottomed out, Harry swore he could feel it reach his throat.
Worse was how much the older man spoke.
Harry couldn’t help drowning in the flurry of praise spilling from the Dark Lord. His voice was deep, saturated with desire for Harry, and overflowing with endless endearments that made Harry’s head spin.
Had anyone ever wanted Harry the way the Lord wanted him right now? Had anyone ever spoken of him with such adoration—looking at him and seeing not the Boy Who Lived, not their savior, but simply Harry? It felt like Harry was being cherished.
Had he ever been given praise so raw and true? He could tell Voldemort's words were real; their connection broadcast the dark wizard’s thoughts into him without mercy.
Harry could feel the pleasure building higher with every possessive promise slipping from Voldemort’s lips. His eyes fixed forward on the graveyard, and even such a bleak, unflattering backdrop could not ruin the mindless pleasure flooding through him.
It felt like a drug—such an overwhelming high Harry could never replicate, not even if he swallowed every dangerous potion Snape possessed.
“Ah—ah—god—I—Voldemor—I will cu—” Harry’s voice broke between gasps and slurred cries.
“Yesssss. Fall apart for me, my own.”
The serpentine man pressed kisses along Harry’s back while maintaining his relentless pace. It was maddening—the sheer contrast between almost tender kisses against his skin to the punishing rhythm of Voldemort's thrusts.
Worse still was how their connection made Harry vividly aware of how he looked. Looking at himself through Voldemort's eyes, Harry could only describe himself as utterly wrecked, looking wholly debauched.
Harry, for a moment, wondered how disappointed his friends would be if they saw him like this— if Ginny saw him—
As if sensing the boy's thoughts, Voldemort hissed a dark, “No.”
A hot tongue traced the shell of Harry’s ear, making his mind reel. “No one but Lord Voldemort can bed you. Anyone else who tries will die. You are mine, Harry Potter.”
That apparently seemed to be Harry's tipping point. His body jerked as he came, muscles clenching as release tore through him in a rush of euphoria.
The Dark Lord was not far behind. The man thrust with mounting desperation, consumed by the need to fill the boy, to claim him and tmark Harry as his.
Voldemort felt himself nearing the edge.
Sharp fangs bared as the Dark Lord bit down at the nape of Harry’s neck, drawing a silent, high cry from him at the dual sensation—the burning pain of the bite and the overwhelming fullness within him, filling him up. Their horcrux connection flared with full force, making both of them feel the aftershocks of release as they panted in union.
Voldemort lay atop Harry while the boy remained numb within his embrace.
Both were too spent to speak, simply breathing in the cool night air to soothe their overheated bodies. Harry’s throat felt raw from crying, his eyes still wet with tears he was too exhausted to wipe away.
After what felt like hours—or perhaps only minutes—the older mage pulled away, withdrawing from him with a wet, obscene sound. Harry was far too dazed to feel any shame. He lay limp, clutching the pillow, even when the Dark Lord rolled him over to look at his face; he offered no resistance beyond faint protests from aching limbs.
Harry felt lethargic, unable to form coherent thoughts. Words slipped away from him. He tried to open his mouth—to say something, perhaps an insult at the older man, perhaps a plea for his survival—but his eyelids drooped as his body finally cooled down from repeated release in the past hour.
Harry could not even remember how he had ended up here. Or the reason he opposed all of this so strongly. What on earth had caused this coupling to occur again?
Sleep was returning in full force, dragging him into its embrace. He heard Voldemort laugh somewhere above him, but his eyes were too heavy to open as his mouth was claimed in a soft, gentle kiss.
It was so uncharacteristic of the Dark Lord that it barely registered to Harry that it was Voldemort kissing him at all. The kiss was sweet and chaste—like the kind Harry heard schoolgirls gush about at his school hallways. This was what the Harry had imagined his first kiss was supposed to be like.
Too tired to return it, Harry just tilted his head upward for better access, savoring its softness.
It earned him an amused chuckle.
“Darling, you are perfection,” Voldemort cooed softly.
The words alone forced Harry’s heavy green eyes open. He had never imagined Dark Lords to be the sort who praised their partners in bed—especially not this Dark Lord. Harry had expected Voldemort to gloat and make fun of Harry's inexperience, reveling in his own dominance of being good at the act of physical passion.
Yet the man seemed wholly absorbed in admiring the younger mage, his crimson gaze moving over Harry’s disheveled, spent form with something that felt dangerously akin to reverence.
Harry would have been blushing if his skin were not already flushed from head to toe. A distant, mortified expression flickered through him—how in Merlin's beard was he supposed to return to his friends like this? What excuse could he possibly give for his ruined clothes? Would he truly have to ask the Dark Lord to mend them for him?
Those intense red eyes remained fixed on him, unblinking, as Voldemort murmured something too soft for Harry to catch.
“What…?” Harry croaked hoarsely.
“You are so good for me, Harry—my precious horcrux.”
Harry blinked, dazed, assuming it was simply another strange endearment. From an outsider’s perspective, he might have scoffed and rolled his eyes—but hearing it directed at him only made him feel oddly shy.
Voldemort took Harry’s left hand with slow thoughtfulness and pressed a lingering, almost devotional kiss to the back of the boy's palm. “There will be no escape, my dear.”
Long, pale fingers traced each of Harry’s own smaller fingers, unhurried, almost worshipful in their attention. “No matter where you run, I will always find you.”
Harry watched through half-lidded eyes as serpentine lips closed around his ring finger, the gesture feeling intimate and possessive all at once. “In the end, you will belong with Lord Voldemort—now and forever.”
With that final promise, sharp teeth pressed down, causing Harry to let out a startled, pained sound—leaving a perfect crescent of marks encircling the boy's finger like a morbid imitation of a vow.
A slow, creeping dread began to seep back into Harry then, clarity returning in fragile fragments as he saw the half-mad intensity burning in Voldemort’s gaze. Regret stirred faintly in the boy's stomach.
Perhaps Harry shouldn't have gone along with all this...
Yet when the Dark Lord gathered his pliant body into what could only be described as a lover’s embrace, Harry lacked the strength to resist the inescapable warmth that surrounded him, and his exhaustion dragged him downward into slumber.
His eyes fluttered shut, sleep claiming him at last.
One final thought lingered dimly in his mind before everything faded to black.
Merlin… How was he going to get out of this now?