Let me explain.
This story – as in, this first chapter, here – was initially written as a oneshot. I was just in the mood once to write some PWP. I never had before. Decided to give it a shot. It got maybe ten reviews but most of them said, 'this should continue!'
Sure, I thought. Why not? Five chapters, I said. It's over in five chapters.
I said I wouldn't write an epilogue.
I said I wouldn't write a sequel.
I did. It's called Hauntingly, and it's…something.
Anyway. If you are interested in reading a long, extremely plotty story with no character bashing, the slowest burn in the world for LV/HP, and just intense, crazy drama with an insane number of cliffhangers (but not for you, because it's all complete!), then this story and its two sequels are all that. Just keep in mind that this first chapter, when written, was never intended to be any of those things. It will read as a bit illogical and, well, fast. Just go with the fact that it's a dream, and strange stuff happens in dreams. Or, if you really want, you can just know that some crazy dream sex in the Death Chamber happens between Harry and Voldemort and skip this chapter altogether. Up to you.
Also, these stories are also on Ao3, and you should check them out there or my TUMBLR (im on there as obsidianpen) if you're interested in fanart, because some wonderful people have made me some wonderful works.
I should probably warn you about a thousand things, but I won't. I'm not even sure what they should be.
I'm sorry in advance.
Harry heard the whispers through the veil like a chorus of strangled, pleading breaths. Calling to him, beckoning him towards it. One repeated word.
The seductive lure of death.
His nightmares brought him to the Department of Mysteries often. When Harry Potter had lost his godfather weeks ago, the closest thing to family he had ever known, he had lost himself. The fire was extinguished, his fighting spirit was gone. The Boy Who Lived was a hollow shell of a person.
The whispers of death did not fill him with fear. They filled him with longing. Yet never in his dreams did Harry actually approach the dais with the promise that, should he pass through the veil, his suffering would end. That he would see Sirius again.
Harry knew it was a dream, yet he also knew that these were no ordinary nightmares. It was a dark and powerful magic that pulled at him, and Harry felt certain that if he passed through the tattered fabric before him in this state, he would never return to the land of the living. The Chosen One would simply never wake.
A deep, steadying breath before stepping forward. The old cloth danced against his skin, surprisingly soft, moving as though it were caught in a gentle breeze. But the air in the vast chamber was still.
The whispers became faster now, almost excited as he approached.
Harry… Harry… Harry…
The last word was not from beyond the veil. It was a piercing, high-pitched voice which called to him from behind.
A familiar voice.
Harry turned, fearless. A man who has accepted his death is afraid of nothing.
Lord Voldemort approached him with purpose in his step. Dark, billowing robes and pale, bare feet, crimson eyes and snakelike features. Harry felt his lips twitch in a bizarre moment of ill-suited humor. How long had he spent fearing this man? Running from him? He felt the need to do neither of those things now. A strange calm settled over Harry as he smiled at his prophesied enemy. Voldemort's red gaze narrowed, suspicious at the lack of concern.
"Step away from the veil, Harry," the Dark Lord said. It was an imposing and dangerous tenor that simply demanded obedience.
Yet Harry just laughed. "Why? Oh, because you would like to do the honors. Right." He held his arms out wide on either side of himself mockingly. "Well, what are you waiting for? If you think it will work, kill me. Strike down your mortal enemy in his dream."
Voldemort, however, did not pull his wand from his robes, nor did he make any other indication that he was going to strike. "I am not here to kill you, Harry Potter," he said quietly.
"That's a shame." Harry sighed. He turned to look back towards the veil.
A sudden, vice-like grip ensnared his forearm. In a movement that was so rapid his vision blurred, Harry's body was pulled off of the dais and he was flung backwards on to the stone floor. His elbow slammed into the ground, instantly causing his eyes to water and a hiss of pain to escape his lips.
Voldemort loomed over him. His forceful gaze sang of blood and rage and…something else that Harry couldn't place, but which burned with such an intensity that he felt adrenaline explode in his veins.
That, in and of itself, was impressive, Harry realized. For weeks, he had felt nothing. For weeks, he had been empty, cold, numb.
He certainly felt something now. His heart lodged in his throat as the Dark Lord advanced on him.
"What—" he began, but he was cut off by an icy statement that caused the hairs on his entire body to stand erect.
"I know what you are, Harry Potter... Your life belongs to me. Death will never touch you."
Harry just gaped as genuine, raw fear washed over him in tumultuous waves. "What are you talking about?" he choked out, attempting to push himself to his feet. Before he could, an invisible force yanked him upwards, and he was suspended in mid air, directly in front of the Dark Lord. His feet hovered inches off of the ground and his hands were bound to his sides. Trapped. Harry struggled to move them as Voldemort, crimson gaze now level with his own, approached. He was practically prowling as he came nearer, and the look in his eyes was predatory as they shamelessly roamed over Harry's entire body, finally settling on his scar. Harry swallowed nervously. He felt extremely and inexplicably exposed at the way he was being examined.
Long, spidery fingers reached for his face, and though Harry tried desperately to turn his head to escape Voldemort's touch, that invisible force would not allow it. He waited for the pain, the horrible explosion of agony that would come from his scar at the physical contact—but it never came. Instead, in a surprisingly gentle gesture, Harry felt the hair on his forehead being brushed aside to reveal his scar to Voldemort's piercing stare more fully. A soft, feather-light touch.
There was a long pause in which neither of them said anything. The pounding of Harry's heart was so loud in his ears that he was certain the Dark Lord must hear it, too. Finally, his blood-red eyes connected with his own again, and Harry felt like he'd been struck with lightning at the intensity of his stare.
"The connection between us, our bond, is much deeper than I could have ever anticipated before, Harry… But I know now..." He said the last words in a tone that bordered on seductive. Harry felt a thrill of anticipation as Voldemort trailed his fingertips from his forehead down his cheek, over the contours of face towards his chin—but the wandless magic prevented Harry from jerking away from his touch.
"Know w-what?" Harry managed to say, and he felt his face burn in embarrassment at his own stuttering. Voldemort's thin lips curved into the slightest smile.
Before Harry could say or do anything else, before he could feel anything other than the briefest moment of panic, Harry was filled with the strangest emotion.
Happiness, or something like it. Certainly the closest thing to joy that he had felt in weeks. It was impossible, it was absurd, but it was a genuine warmth that was flowing through him in gentle, light waves. Voldemort's smile widened.
"H-how are you doing that?" Harry gasped.
"Pain, pleasure, sorrow, joy…" Voldemort crooned in a soft, silky tone. Harry shuddered at the sound. "You feel what I feel, Harry. My happiness is your happiness… and right now, having you here in my grasp and seeing with certainty what you are, I am, indeed, pleased…"
Voldemort moved his hand so that his thumb was ghosting over Harry's lower lip, almost touching it, his red eyes following the curve of his mouth like he found it fascinating. Harry's pulse was racing, anticipation and that sick sense of joy coiling in his chest like a serpent.
"Wh-what are you doing?" Harry breathed, lightheaded.
Voldemort leaned in. Harry could feel his next words as he spoke them, warm breath against his skin.
"Whatever I want."
Harry didn't have a chance to say anything to that, because at that moment the Dark Lord claimed Harry's lips as his own.
Harry knew he should have been instantly horrified and disgusted at such an action. This was Lord Voldemort, mass murderer and most feared wizard in all of history, his mortal enemy - but that happiness which had begun to permeate his mind before escalated at the physical contact. Harry's mind was burning with joy as his lips parted, his mouth opening under Voldemort's demanding tongue and sudden grip on his jaw.
This should not be happening.
Another euphoric wave of emotion swelled in Harry's psyche, overwhelming.
This should not be happening.
Voldemort's tongue was moving against his own, and Harry found himself reciprocating this kiss, and why, why was he responding to this, why did this feel so good?
This should not be happening.
Why did this feel so right?
Harry didn't notice when, exactly, the invisible bonds had dissipated, he only knew that suddenly his arms were pulling Voldemort towards him in a feverish, unexpected desperation, and their taboo kiss intensified a thousand-fold.
Harry was, all good sense and logic, willing it to happen.
It was so very, very wrong, so wrong that he could not even begin to properly comprehend it. So many different emotions were flooding through him—fear, shock, anxiety, joy, and desire, definitely desire—but was it all Voldemort's joy? The Dark Lord's desire? Harry didn't know, but he found that he didn't much care in this dream, this nightmare, because it just felt so good to feel something.To no longer be that hollow shell that, just moments ago, was prepared to step through the veil towards the whispers of death, because death, at least, seemed to want him…
Voldemort abruptly pulled away.
"You are more than merely wanted, Harry." It was as if the Dark Lord had read his very thoughts. His pale face was smooth and unreadable, but his eyes were smoldering with emotion. "You are mine, completely and irrevocably mine…"
And though Harry knew that statement should have petrified him, the feelings of Voldemort's joy and desire were far stronger. Harry clung to the Dark Lord's emotions, desperate not to lose them, this sensation like fire in his soul. For the first time in weeks, he felt so alive…
Something in Voldemort snapped.
The Dark Lord was suddenly biting at Harry's neck, viscous, pulling at his clothes and running his fingers through his wild hair in a frenzied manner. The switch from composed and collected to feverish with irrevocable lust had been so abrupt in the Dark Lord that Harry was jarred by the abrupt onslaught emotions—emotions which were definitely not his own. They flooded through Harry's mind like river, and he let them rush in, willingly drowning in Voldemort's desire until it became his own.
Robes and clothes were torn and scattered across the stone floor of the Department of Mysteries in seconds. Harry hadn't the faintest idea who had done what, but the raw force of their magical energy saturated the air, thick and heavy and dark. Wandless magic at his finest, Harry thought wildly for a fleeting moment—but the twisted smirk that was threatening to form on his lips at the thought never did, as the Dark Lord claimed them once more, this time in a far more violent, dominating way. Harry relished the pain that was born as Voldemort forcefully bit his lower lip, delighted in the taste of his own blood as it landed on his tongue. Harry felt delirious, unsteady, unhinged.
Fingernails dug into his back, and a deep moan escaped from the depths of Harry's throat. Yes, he thought, as he felt his skin tear apart where Voldemort's nails dragged across his skin. Yes, pain and agony and pleasure and I want to feel it all…
An exceptionally powerful rush of lust coursed through him at that thought. Harry knew then that Voldemort could, indeed, read his mind, because the Dark Lord pulled away to stare into his eyes, a nearly intoxicated look about him.
It was only a moment, but the world seemed to hang in the balance when their gazes locked. Harry was breathless.
Then he was whipped around so quickly he gasped. A hand was gripping his hair tightly as he was shoved onto his hands and knees so forcefully that tears sprung to the corners of his eyes; but in a twisted, mad way Harry enjoyed it, wanted more. The Dark Lord was suddenly kneeling behind him and spreading his legs apart, and Harry could feel his undeniable desire against his thigh, long and hard. Voldemort leaned over him and hissed parseltongue into his ear.
Harry shivered, his body convulsing with an unnatural, powerful longing. The stone archway with its tattered fabric fluttered in the still air, like Death itself was present, about to witness this most sinful of acts.
...Was this a dream?
There was no warning before Voldemort thrust into him. No preparation, no magically whispered words to ease what was to come. Just an explosion of delicious, overwhelming pain. Harry cried out, an incomprehensible howl that echoed in the Death Chamber like a song. The sound that escaped Voldemort's lips, however, was one of undeniable pleasure.
And it was such a strange sensation, Harry thought wildly, to feel the Dark Lord's gratification and his own physical sensations of pain simultaneously. Overwhelming, bewildering, intoxicating.
Harry wanted more.
Voldemort began moving in and out of him with a brutal force. The pain and pleasure were so coiled together that Harry couldn't tell them apart anymore, he just knew that it was wonderful and horrible but that anything, anything was better than the hollow nothing his life had been before. He let out a sharp gasp that quickly turned into a moan as he felt fingers curl around what he only just now realized was his incredibly hard length, and oh, God, he needed that, he needed it—
The pain, which had been so overwhelming before, was dissipating into pure, undiluted bliss.
This should not be happening.
Harry let out another throaty moan as he felt his orgasm building, knowing that he couldn't possibly last long at such powerful sensations.
"Come for me, Harry…" the Dark Lord hissed in his ear, parseltongue again. God, how wrong, how incredibly wrong, Harry thought as he came ever nearer to his climax, how extraordinarily wrong.
Surprisingly, Harry felt a sudden streak of his old stubbornness surface at that moment, and the familiar trait felt foreign from its long absence. Yet now he felt a twitch of annoyance at being told directly to bend to Voldemort's will, to be so willingly submissive, that he tried not to—
Voldemort laughed, and increased his speed and vigor in a way that made Harry let out another unbidden, throaty cry. He couldn't fight it. Harry knew he was lost.
This should not be happening.
The pareltongue demand was a whisper in his ear, and Harry fell into a white-hot, explosive oblivion.
He came, hard, and while he was still throbbing in Voldemort's grasp the Dark Lord gave an exceptionally powerful thrust as he lost himself, too. Waves of pleasure wracked through them both.
Harry closed his eyes and saw stars.
After he finished, Voldemort wrapped his arms possessively around Harry's thin waist. They stayed that way for a moment, and Harry attempted to slow his rapid breathing, his racing pulse—yet soon his arms began to shake, and he knew he couldn't remain on his knees for much longer without collapsing.
Again, as if he could simply hear the realization as Harry came to it, Voldemort stood. Harry was lifted to his feet by that same, invisible force. His mind was now buzzing with a sense of want that was very different than the lust that had clouded his thoughts just moments before.
"You will wake soon, with only a vague recollection of this dream," Voldemort said in a detached voice. "But know this…"
He traced his fingers along Harry's forehead much as he'd done before, only now Harry didn't attempt to jerk away, and his forehead was clammy and hot with sweat. Voldemort's hand was oddly cold; a pleasant sensation against his burning skin. "I will come for you, my horcrux…"
Harry frowned; he had absolutely no idea what a horcrux was. Voldemort didn't offer an explanation. "I will come for you, and you will come to me, whether you wish to or not…because you are mine…"
The chamber around them was beginning to shimmer in an odd way, and Harry knew he was about to awaken… back to Privet Drive, back to his horrible, numbing existence with the Dursley's and no one and nothing to do but wallow in his own misery, completely alone…
Voldemort's gaze left his scar to stare into his eyes again. The last words he repeated were no longer detached and emotionless, but laced with something that reminded Harry wildly of sympathy.
"I will come for you."