(5/25) To bask in your rancid creaking rhythm
Staying at Hogwarts is no longer an option.
The way that the pair is being treated, and vice versa, is coming to some sort of horrible crescendo. No one knows how to act around the two, with Harry almost constantly wrapped around the Dark Lord. Riddle in turn pets his head affectionately, before tugging sharply on one messy strand, or rubbing circles into the golden boy's bare skin before dragging the edge of a nail across Harry's flesh, leaving fresh red score marks in vaguely recognizable shapes for the world to see.
The survivors of the war have been so busy taking stock of who's alive, who needs medical care, who's dead and gone, along with the state of the government and who's going to run it, that Voldemort and Harry have all but been forgotten for a few hectic days. However, now that the magical community has managed to settle itself into a patchy temporary system, and most of the living and deceased have been accounted for, people are asking the question that no one has wanted to ask up until this point:
What's to be done with the Dark Lord and their Chosen One?
So many people are embittered over the result of the long bloody war that they don't even want to bother trying to solve the problem fairly.
Most people figure their savior is lost to the darkness; that Tom Riddle's corrupting presence has killed off whatever innate goodness the young hero had. And after all, is he really even worth their time? He hadn't even managed to fulfill his destiny; Lord Voldemort is still alive and well. The majority wants Harry and Voldemort Kissed or locked away in the depths of Azkaban forever.
A small portion wants to find a way to separate the two, but in most cases it's a weak protest on their part. The entire magical community is so tired that no one really cares about anything besides getting a little piece of revenge for their dead loved ones.
Voldemort knows from experience what combustive elements are required to incite and angry mob, devoid of all logic and humanity, and ready to lynch the first thing that crosses their path. The angry mutterings are not far from turning into exactly that; and he is afraid that even though he can survive a teenage boy (prophesized to be his equal or not) he might not survive the entirety of the rest of magical Britain coming down on his head, especially in his weakened state and having to protect his new pet.
Speaking of his pet, Harry is currently sleeping with his head and arms pillowed against the Dark Lord's stomach, air wheezing lightly though his nose as he breathes shallowly in and out. Riddle's hand is tangled tightly in the black mop, woven into the insanity that is the green-eyed boy's dirty mess of hair. He's given up trying to pull the pieces into some kind of order, and settles for massaging the slightly oily, eggshell-thin skin under his fingertips. Harry mewls or winces with each tug in his troubled sleep.
The first thing to do is to remove the containment bubble around them that keeps him from leaving the area. Really, it shouldn't be that difficult, as the staff has been so distracted that they've forgotten to strengthen the small ward. It also helps that being an heir to one of the Founders means that magic tends to work more in his favor while in Hogwarts castle.
Allowing his body to go lax, Voldemort focuses on the bubble of magic, and easily recognizes the way the ward is built. It has five focus points, four bricks around their bed in the floor. The bricks are underneath the carpet, and the staff probably thinks they are being clever by using hidden focus points, but really. The fifth is an invisible floating point above their bed that acts as the keystone for the top of the bubble. There is none underneath, but the brick is sturdy enough that it doesn't really need one. Blowing a hole through the solid brick floor is even beyond him without a wand, especially in his weakened state.
Very carefully he threads his magic up against each point, making sure not to set off the ward alarms. Even though it is made to repel him while letting Harry though, the creators have obviously not realized just how intertwined his and Harry's magic has ended up. Pulling magic from the boy sleeping against him, he is able to examine the ward with out being rebuffed.
Temporary magic like the ward around their bed draws from its creators. It therefore reflects the castors' current magical status, and all three of the creators are obviously strained and tired. One of them had obtained a magical injury during the short battle, and as such there is a weak point around the base of the northern focus directly to his left. Once he notices it, he wonders how he had missed it before. It is like a snarl in the smooth weave of magic, and he easily weaves a tendril of Harry's magic through a few frayed loops.
Focusing on his task at hand, he misses hazy unfocused eyes blinking open at him.
What are you doing? Harry's mental whisper dances across the surface of his thoughts, light as a feather, trying not to startle the Dark Lord.
Quiet! He snaps, If you break my concentration, you insolent brat, I will break your fingers. Harry recoils a bit from the frostbitten tone, and his scar flairs smartly.
Red eyes flashed towards him for a split second, an exasperated frown twisting Voldemort's face. Watch and see. Voldemort's mental voice is an icy shadow that twists a little bit of light from Harry's soul each time it skitters through his thoughts.
The Dark Lord refocuses his complete attention on the damaged section of ward and very delicately twists the threads and then slices clean through the most frayed strand. The bubble ward disintegrates before their eyes, drawing back in on itself as though it has been too tightly stretched over an unforgiving surface for too long.
MOVE! Voldemort screams in Harry's mind. Adrenaline forcefully pumps through Harry's veins, quenching a thirst for action that he hadn't realized was there until now. In all reality both of them are adrenaline junkies of the worst sort.
Before the ward can finish unraveling, Riddle digs his skeletal fingers into Harry's arm and forcefully drags him off the bed. Harry stumbles, catching his shin on the edge of the metal bed frame. Riddle doesn't pause, violently bruising Harry's upper arm in the process. A vicious fire consumes the Dark Lord, his magic offensively focused in front of him in jagged points, hissing and spitting like a cobra ready to strike the first thing that crosses it's path.
In a whirling mass of magic and hospital gowns, they barrel through the doors to their personal room in the hospital wing. Madam Pomphrey shrieks in outrage, and fires a stunner at the two escaping boys.
Harry clenches his eyes closed, and as Voldemort throws open the doors to the main ward and smashed his shoulder against the doorframe. Pain blossoms down his arm, but the Dark Lord doesn't seem to care.
"Where are we going, you snakey bastard?!" Harry cries, frantically trying to keep up with the crazed Dark Lord that's sprinting inhumanly fast. His legs feel like they've been de-boned after sitting in bed for so long. The Dark Lord doesn't even spare him a though, mercilessly swinging them around corners at breakneck speeds.
Green eyes furiously stare at the black head in front of him. A strong sense of loyalty to his friends seems to be dragging him in the opposite direction, tearing him in two.
Harry wonders when his friend's half began to shrink.
Or even when Voldemort ended up owning more than half of him.
It's hard to forget the bone-chilling red fog that has invaded his senses, curdling like blood at the corners of his mind. Harry feels like he should have some kind of righteous anger over the fact that Voldemort is basically kidnapping him.
It's hard to kidnap someone who comes willingly. Voldemort viciously sneers in his mind. Shame burns like acid in the back of Harry's throat.
A blood-boiling curse fries a chunk of Harry's fringe, just barely missing his eye. Startled forcefully out of his thoughts, he snaps his head around, and sees the last person he ever thought to see lobbing dark curses at his head: Hermione.
Her face looks a bit horrified, as though she was the last person she thought would do something like that as well. Harry figures that the look might also have meant (or at least he hopes) that she was aiming for the Dark Lord in front of him.
Voldemort doesn't even flinch, but his head whips around like the laser on the silencing scope of a muggle sniper gun, Harry thinks, and when his vicious gaze hones in on the Muggleborn witch, all of his magic launches itself in her direction. It curves up around the pair of wizards, sharp points like poison tipped arrows and fangs meet their target with precision, slamming biting energy through Hermione's upper chest.
The girl bends backward at an unnatural angle, curving up… Voldemort wrenches Harry around another corner, as the back of the witch's head makes contact with the stones. Harry screams and tries to struggle to get away, but the iron band of fingers around his arm are buried in his skin tighter than shackles.
"Hermione! Let me go! Herm-"
"You would run back to the one that just cast a blood-boiling curse at you?! Insolent brat, shut up and RUN!"
Harry whimpers a bit, his head on fire.
At this point they must be flying, stones pounding under their feet, and the wind tugging their hair backwards. Harry doesn't think he's ever run so fast in his entire life. Rounding the last corner, Riddle hauls him into a dingy girls bathroom. The light is grey, washing out Voldemort's skin to a sickly shade. Harry imagines he doesn't look much better. Wild tendrils of damp hair curl across the Dark Lord's forehead and behind his ears. A few strands wind over the top vertebrae exposed by the thin hospital gown. The Gryffindor has never seen someone so sweaty and tired look so sinister before in his life.
Shouts and pounding footsteps can be heard coming down the corridor.
Molten eyes glow from their sunken sockets as Voldemort sibilates the magic word. The sink once more drops down into the pipe, and once again Harry's torn head first down into the Chamber of Secrets.
The slide is still disgusting, and muck weaves itself into his flimsy hospital gown, working its way into various crevices left exposed. Harry feels a little bit better knowing that Riddle won't escape un-mucked however. It's still exhilarating, the wind whistling across the shells of their ears and cooling they're damp grimy hair and faces.
Harry hears the distant thud of the sink closing back over top the pipe.
And it's one of those rare moments where Tom looks back over his shoulder and grins a full tooth smile at Harry, and even though they're disgusting, dressed in thin, dirty hospital gear, and life couldn't be worse, Harry whoops back and laughs full and throaty like he hasn't done in a long long time.
When they hit the bottom of the pipe, not even Voldemort is able to land neatly. They end up in a tangled mass of boney limbs and rodent skeletons. The Dark Lord lifts himself off of Harry a few inches so that he's straddling the boy, hips locked tightly together. Voldemort hears his pet's breath hitch, eyes still glowing from the excitement of the insane escape they had just made.
Voldemort can't help but tug fingers back through the wild strands pressed against Harry's forehead, and bends down to apply a claiming bite to the younger boy's chin. Green eyes snap open and he arches thin bones up to press against his claimer. Every contact point makes Harry shiver with an aching cold that seeps into his very bones.
Harry's lost and doesn't know if he can find himself anymore.
And then it's gone, and he's left gasping on the ground with little bones slicing into the delicate flesh of his arms and back. He presses his hand against his chest trying to calm his breathing as the frostbite retreats along with the Dark Lord.
"What are you doing to me?" Harry breaths, feeling his guts twisting unnaturally inside of him. Either Voldemort doesn't hear, or chooses to ignore him.
Finally, he pushes himself up, cutting grimy fingers on rat vertebrae. Voldemort saunters away without a backward glance.
Harry sprints after him, trying to ignore the fact that his bare feet are taking the brunt of the sharp little bones. He trips over a stone on the way, barely managing to not face plant on the chamber floor.
Harry reaches his doppelgänger, panting a bit from the pain in his feet, and the pain in his lungs. The main doors to the chamber are already opening, the egg-sized gems glittering maliciously from the sockets of stone snake's eyes.
Voldemort's eyes widen a split second before a resounding blast echoes down the pipe. Stones shake loose from the ceiling, and faint shouts can be heard from above. Voldemort yanks Harry through the opening doors and slams them shut behind the two.
The Dark Lord whips around and glares at Harry. Go sit over there and be QUIET! The young man snaps back around and Harry begins to notice the kind of exceptionally forceful concentration Riddle has when attempting a magical feat; many of which the Dark Lord has displayed wandlessly and in the same day. Harry can see the strain in the other man's body in the slope of his shoulders and pace of his breathing. Deep purple shadows are etched under scarlet eyes set into hollowed out sockets. Skin stretched tightly against sharp cheekbones, and Harry knows he can't look all that much better himself.
Except that Riddle has an enormous rapidly pulsing mass of frenzied magic pushing against that paper-thin skin, veins traced in glowing lines just under the surface.
Riddle is fiercely concentrating on his task of what Harry assumes is sealing the chamber doors against intruders. He's muttering in Parsel and drawing bloodied fingertips in sharp jagged motions across stone snakes. The carved creatures are coming to life and zigzagging to cover the crevices in the great door.
But Harry can see the last of the crimson magic bleeding out of Riddle to infuse the living stone creatures. The Dark Lord is sweating more and still chanting, but his breath is coming in shorter spurts and his skin is loosing its glow.
Stones rattle, and Harry can hear shouts much closer now, just on the other side of the door. He leaps forward and wraps fingers around Riddle's waist, startling the exhausted Dark Lord. The man drops his attempts to seal the door, instead focusing his last bit of energy on fighting of his supposed attacker.
Take it from me! Harry yells though their mind link. All he receives is a confused angry mass of anger pushing back against him like a rabid animal. Instead he closes his eyes hastily as the shouts and spells grow louder still. Focusing on the red pulsing link that is Voldemort's connection to him, he pushes his own magic down the line like turning on a faucet of green water.
A gasp of understanding clears the Dark Lord's animalistic fervor, and with a savage unforgiving pull, Harry feels the magic draining out of him in a violent suction. It leaves his bones aching and his skin dry; the membrane over his eyes tightens painfully and his fingers curl claw-like into the Dark Lord's rejuvenated flesh.
As Harry's vision goes black, and the last thing he hears is the high pitched cackle of the Dark Lord ringing around the chamber.
Harry wakes to find himself held securely against Voldemort's chest, skin pink from the heat of the water around them. They're leaning against the edge of a bath that's set into the floor made of marble like Harry's never seen. It's not tiled, but the bath is cut directly from what seems to be one giant slab of black threaded through with green and silver fibers.
But Harry's brain quickly hones down to a single point: the one connecting him and the Dark Lord.
Harry feels like he should be outraged that Voldemort took the liberty of fucking him while he was unconscious, however the connection between the two has only grown stronger since yesterday, or whenever; Harry's lost track of time.
Strong arms grip him from behind, and hips undulate up into him, sliding a thick piece of flesh up inside of him. Harry cries out, throwing his head back, and bringing his throat in alignment with Voldemort's teeth.
Bruises overlap other bruises, and Voldemort adds another set on top of the purple and green marks already pressed into Harry's flesh.
"How does it feel to be owned so completely, pet?" Slam! The question is rhetorical as Harry sees stars Riddle's cock rattles his teeth with the amount of upward force exerted. He couldn't answer if he tried. (A slow withdrawal, and then another upward thrust that has Harry gasping for more.)
Harry claws at anything he can reach; scrapping fingers against the smooth bowl of marble they're bathing in. Tears drip down Harry's face, mingling with the water.
"P- Please! Please, Riddle!" Another couple slams and Harry whimpers, feeling the chilled spurt of seed coat his insides.
"What pet? Today I will give you anything you ask for; you saved us both." Harry whimpers, still hard from arousal. Voldemort slides him off of himself, spinning the boy around in his lap. Tapered white fingers lightly trace the vein on the bottom of Harry's length.
Harry turns beat red, embarrassed beyond belief that he's in this situation again. He should be kicking and screaming, trying his best to get away. Harry can't bring himself to even attempt to articulate what he wants—more—no--
"More what, pet? This time," Cool lips slide against his skin, pressed behind the delicate flesh of Harry's ear. "I'm going to make you beg me for it."
Harry wonders when his brain went to frozen mush; it seems like he's been submerged in a bone-chilling red mist for so long that everything has gone numb. Everything except the places that he can feel the Dark Lord touching him; Harry doesn't know what he wants anymore.
The Dark Lord seems to have forgotten about his request, and yanks Harry up off his lap and onto the side of the bowl. With Harry on his back, head resting just on the edge of the water, Voldemort drags his legs up over his shoulders and slams back into him, already hard again, pushing Harry forward and his head over the edge of the tub.
"Fuck!" Harry screams, sputtering water as it sloshes over his head and into his mouth. He rapidly blinks his eyes, trying futilely to rid them of bath water. Combined with his bad vision, all he can see is a demonic grin shaping a mouth identical to his.
Harry sees stars, as water painfully burns down the back of his throat. He coughs wetly, trying to suck air into his lungs, but water continues to choke him. Voldemort continues to slam into him, and Harry feels like a great weight is pushing down on his chest, pushing him down into the water. His back arches over the edge, spine hurting from the sharp edge of the bowl digging into his back.
Harry thinks it's kind of beautiful down here, with the water sloshing over him, distorting the room into insane shapes with too much saturation….
And then he's waking up again, this time to a spell that's forcefully expelling the water from his lungs through any orifice it can.
"Ga-AK!" Harry sputters, jets of liquid shooting out his nose and mouth. The back of his throat burns something fierce.
As soon as the spell is finished, he turns his best death glare on the amused red eyes looking down at him. He thinks that maybe he's lost his touch, as all the Dark Lord does is snort condescendingly down at him.
"Oh no, little Potter. You don't get off that easily." Harry's still gasping for breath, shivering from the bone deep cold that seems to have permeated his entire soul. His body aches more than he can ever remember it doing so before; his shin is throbbing, and he feels like a drowned rat lying on the side of some strange marble bathing pool Merlin-knows-where.
"Where—" Harry coughs, more water burning the back of his throat. "Where are we?"
"Slytherin's underground bathing chamber." Voldemort throws over his shoulder as he saunters away, naked and as though he doesn't have a care in the world.
Still sputtering, Harry manages to drag himself to his feet to chase after the Dark Lord. Harry wonders why Voldemort looks better in this body than Harry does. It's absolutely ridiculous, Harry thinks.
"Come, let me give you the grand tour."