Title: Blood Stained Rose
Pairing: Lord Voldemort x Harry Potter
Rating: Mature – Explicit
Warning: Slash, older man x younger man, blood, most likely morbid. Read at your own risk.
Summary: There's something about seeing his lover doused in blood that greatly appeals to Harry. Perhaps, it's the rebellious side of him. Whatever the case may be, Harry can't deny the way his blood sings in his veins.
In a world where there is no such thing as good and evil, one has no choice but to adapt more animalistic tendencies. If someone had once told Harry that he would be frothing at the mouth, gazing upon his enemy in arousal, he would have told them that they were crazy. Now, though? Now, he could do nothing of the sort. All he could do was stare, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, as the Dark Lord rampaged the streets.
In all his serpent-like glory, Voldemort withdrew his wand from his holster and aimed it at the resistance. Harry, having been commanded to stay away, watched safely from the sidelines. While he would normally be angry at such a demand, he had only acquiesced because he wanted to see his lover fight with his own two eyes. Although Voldemort had rolled his eyes in exasperation when Harry expressed this, Harry knew that the other man had been flattered.
Shifting slightly in his spot behind a destroyed building, emerald jewels gaze ahead with something akin to lust as the other man opens his mouth to speak.
"You have one choice," Voldemort warned. "You can surrender peacefully, or you can fight. Know that, should you choose the former, I will show no mercy."
Hermione Granger, ex-friend of Harry's and the leader of the resistance, took a step forward, her eyes burning with determination.
"You killed hundreds in your fight for power," she said, her voice ringing powerfully in the abandoned city. "We will not allow you to kill any more."
"It's truly regretful," Voldemort said solemnly. "Such a smart witch, sullied by the likes of Dumbledore. You would have made a great addition to my Death Eaters. Alas, if it is a fight you want, it will be a fight you shall get."
Pale, white lips part seamlessly and utter a single word, "Crucio."
At once, Zacharias Smith, one of the boys towards the back, falls to the ground, shrill screams erupting from his mouth. As if that was a signal, battle cries spring free from the resistance's lips as the young witches and wizards spring themselves forward. Bright and colorful rays of light come from their wands and spells zoom forward, barreling towards Voldemort with startling accuracy. The Dark Lord merely smirked, wordlessly conjuring a shield that absorbed the beams.
"It will take more than that to defeat me," he taunted. Silently, he brought his hand up, beckoning them forward. "Come at me like you mean it."
Encouraged by his taunts, a new barrage of spells come forward, each one more deadly than the last. The Dark Lord counters them with glee, allowing several spells to come near him in an illusion of vulnerability. Just as the caster smiles delightedly, having thought they hit him, he casts an enchantment to counteract it.
Time seems to pass slowly as if there is not a battle going on. Despite that, Harry remains hooked. He's mesmerized by Voldemort; his attention utterly captured by the look of pure excitement in his lover's eyes. He wonders absently when the resistance will catch on to the fact that the Death Eater's, the Dark Lord's most faithful, are mysteriously absent. If anyone, he would have thought Hermione would have figured out their plan by now. What a shame. Perhaps, Voldemort was right. Such a bright girl, sullied by Dumbledore's foolish thoughts.
Hours later, Harry couldn't help but feel sorry for his lover. By then, the resistance had foolishly allowed themselves to grow tired. Their movements, while once fast, had grown sluggish. Voldemort now deflects their spells with no enthusiasm, the small frown on his face an indication of just how bored he had become.
"Is that all?" he asked, one eyebrow raised, when no more spells come. The people in the resistance glare at him, but they don't attempt to raise their wands. Their cores are burnt out and their breathing is shallow.
"Shut up," Hermione whispered. "You took our homes, our lives, and you dare look at us with disgust?"
"In war, causalities are bound to occur," Voldemort said, unimpressed. "They teach that in school, do they not?"
"But there was no need for war! Had you not sought power, we wouldn't have-"
"For a positive change to occur, one must fight the status quo," the Dark Lord interrupted. "You may not see it, but this is for the best."
"Lies," Hermione snarled. "Everything you say, lies."
Voldemort simply shrugged, crossing his arms.
"If you are done, Ms. Granger," he began, smirking when the girl twitched. "I have to go back to the compound. You see, while you foolishly tried to bring me down, my Death Eaters procured me a little gift."
Hermione shivered, gazing at the Dark Lord with something akin to fear.
"What gift?" she asked hesitantly. His smirk grew larger, a menacing gleam entering his crimson eyes.
"Ronald Weasley has been found."
Hermione's eyes widened and the girl stopped breathing, staring at Voldemort with pure shock. The man wasted no time, though. Rather, he raised his hand to point at Harry, beckoning the young teen forward.
"It's time to go, dearest," Voldemort calls. Harry smiled and came out from behind the building, practically skipping over to his beloved. "Say goodbye."
Turning to the shell-shocked Hermione, Harry waved cheerfully at the girl.
"Goodbye, traitor," he said. Taking Voldemort's hand, he allowed the man to side-apparate them back home, enjoying the gasps of surprise they left in their wake.
It was so good being him.
After endless questioning, Voldemort had finally gotten fed up. It was obvious Ron wouldn't talk, so why shouldn't he just end it?
"This is your last chance, boy," Voldemort warned. "You can either tell me what I want to know, or I can kill you. Choose wisely."
The red-head turned red at the threat, his veins bulging obscenely in his rage.
"Fuck you," Weasley snarled. "I'm not telling you anything!"
Eyes glittering, the Dark Lord did not hesitate to draw his wand, firing a curse at the boy. Ron's delicious screams rang in his ears, and Harry watched, entranced, as Voldemort put his wand away.
"In that case, suffer."
Without batting an eyelash, the Dark Lord reached out and grasped the redhead's neck, squeezing it viciously. Ron arched off the floor, his chains rattling loudly in the dungeon. Uselessly, he attempted to grasp at the man's hands, but the Dark Lord showed no mercy. Finally, when he was on the verge of death, Voldemort released him and canceled the spell.
"No," the man whispered softly. "By the time you die, I want you to be utterly destroyed."
Conjuring a knife, he lovingly stroked the tip. "Scream for me?"
What followed next could only be described as a bloodbath.
Smiling to himself, Harry gently deposited the body on the porch.
"Give her a fright, okay?" he whispered, reaching out to fondly stroke Ron's cheek. "It's no less than what she deserves for what you two did."
After making sure everything was perfect, Harry knocked on the door and apparated to the woods next to the house. He didn't hesitate to walk into his lover's open arms, allowing the man to pull him close.
"Are you ready, my love?" Voldemort asks softly. Harry nods and turns towards the house. They both watch as Hermione opened the door, her entire body freezing when she saw the mangled corpse on her porch.
"Help!" she screeched. Immediately, she fell to her knees, pulling the redhead close. "Ron, are you okay? Ron!"
They linger long enough to see Neville come out. However, once the brown-eyed boy looks towards the woods, they are gone – the only proof of their presence being a note located on Ron's body.
Morbid, you once called me.
"You killed her, Harry. He may have destroyed her, but you – you killed her."
"How?! I was no-where near her, Hermione! I was with you the entire time."
"You left Ginny to die, Harry. You may not have been the person behind her death, but you were the person who broke her heart."
"That wasn't my fault!"
"He's gotten to you, hasn't he? You're just as morbid as him, now, aren't you?!"
"That's not true!"
"Morbid, evil, despicable. You're just like him!"
You know, your taunts still occasionally haunt me. I remember when we were best friends, remember when I thought you loved me like a brother. How wrong I was… How dreadfully and horribly wrong…
I'm happy. I've finally given you something to accuse me of. Morbid… I hope this was morbid enough for you.
Written for the OTP Boot Camp Challenge created by Gamma Orionis. Submission 1 out of 50. Word Count is 1,478.