Hello, everyone!
With Seeing the Truth finally over I'm giving you another LVxHP fic. For those of you who voted in the poll on my profile, you'll recognize it as the story with the most votes.
I know most of you want a sequel for Ripped Apart but even though I've already got the beginning planned out, I haven't figured out the ending yet. There WILL be a sequel, just not yet.
Hope you enjoy my newest piece of work!
Warnings: underage slash and non-con. Harry is 13, a bit extreme I know, so those of you who are against it should refrain from reading. The way he looks in the 3rd film just begs to be taken advantage of.
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or any of its characters. The credit for that goes to the brilliant J. .
CHAPTER ONE
Footsteps, hurried and urgent, echoed down the hallway.
Harry gasped as he nearly tripped over his feet, bracing himself on the nearest wall. Ragged pants spilled past red hued lips, green eyes looking around wildly, as though expecting the very shadows to manifest and ambush him.
From the corridor behind him, another pair of footsteps, slow and measured compared to his frantic strides, caused his entire frame to grow rigid.
Breathing heavily, he wiped his drenched brow with the sleeve of his pajama top, the thin sky-blue material dampening from his cold sweat.
He jumped when the shuffling of feet drew closer still.
A near whimper escaped the boy the moment his legs failed to obey the instinctual command to flee, grabbing at the rough stone wall to support his trembling body. Teeth digging in his lip hard enough to puncture the soft flesh, he willed his limbs to move and it was only due to the adrenaline pumping through his veins that his body spurred into action.
He had been running for a good part of the last half hour in hope of losing his pursuer or happening upon a teacher.
It was awfully late, however, or rather awfully early what with it being five in the morning and he seriously doubted any staff member was still patrolling the corridors. So far, he had only run into Filch's cat, and that was once. So many hallways and corridors had passed by in a blur, and Harry was feeling so disoriented that he got lost at one point.
Not anymore, though.
It might not have been flooded for a change, but Harry would always recognize the second floor amongst a mass of others.
The Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom wasn't far from there; only one floor up. He needed to get to professor Lupin, to warn someone of the monster that had been unleashed inside the castle before -!
Harry cried out, the sudden scorching in his hand sending him crumbling to his knees.
Eyes half-lidded from the pain, he glanced at the fiery red markings, clutching at his wrist harder with each pulsating sting they sent through his body.
He despaired, looking forlornly at the corridor on the far end; he was so close.
Silence, thick and concrete, met his ears and Harry froze. Shuddering at the chill that raced up his spine, he tipped his head slightly to the side, chancing a single glance above his shoulder. A drawn out moan was torn from deep within his throat, something inside his chest constricting almost viciously upon sighting the silhouette of the other, tall and unmoving, observing Harry in morbid silence with his head tilted as if studying the most intriguing object in the world.
It unnerved Harry as much as it terrified him.
He didn't want that person's attention; it suffocated him with its severity.
The raven haired boy struggled upright, burning hand cradled fearfully to his torso. He took a shaky step back, aware that his body had surpassed its limits long ago. If it wasn't for the icy, undulated horror nested in the deepest recesses of his very being, he'd have passed out from exhaustion already.
But he couldn't take much more of this mental torture.
There was nowhere else to go; he knew it, and his deadly pursuer knew it as well. He was too tired from this game of cat and mouse, of the twisted version of hide and seek that he had been forced into. A game that had a predestined outcome, his participation was solely for the sick pleasure of the puppeteer.
He pulled the strings, and Harry was expected to dance accordingly.
He pressed himself into motion, staggering through the all too familiar door of the abandoned bathroom in a final effort to alert someone, anyone, before his voice would be silenced, never again allowed to speak of the night's events.
He shut the door behind him, the creaking sound it produced reverberating all around him.
"Myrtle," Harry called out quietly, dragging his feet over to the stalls. "Myrtle!" he whispered, frantic when he peeked into the last one and there was still no sight of Moaning Myrtle.
That was impossible! She was always here.
So why…
A strangled sob passed through his pursed lips, leaning his back against the tiled wall.
…why not when he needed her the most?
He didn't have any more chances, this was it. Everyone was going to suffer the consequences of his reckless, unaware action.
But he hadn't meant to bring this upon them, truly. He was a clueless little kid when it came to the world he belonged in. How was he to know the significance of such a seemingly insignificant action when it had never been taught to him? Perhaps, if he had been raised amongst his kind, but that hadn't been the case and there was no use wondering about the ifs now that there was no going back.
The unmistakable creaking of the wooden door jerked him out of his inner turmoil, making him huddle in to himself the moment it slid open enough to reveal the figure on the threshold.
The teen strode in, familiar features catching on the moonlight and flooring Harry's mind.
Yes, even if he had wanted to doubt it at first, there was no mistake now.
The same young man he was certain he had killed in the vastness of the Chamber of Secrets was standing right before his eyes, very much alive and real.
No longer a faded memory from a tattered diary, Tom Riddle's pallor now held a healthy glow rather than the whiteness of a corpse. His overall appearance, however, was precisely like back then, when Harry had first met him. And with Riddle's stance – Harry's own wand held elegantly between deft, lean digits and those deep, dark green eyes centered entirely on his person – Harry felt as though he were still trapped in the Chamber's depths.
With the exception that there would be no songbird to aid him now, no old hat to present him with a glimmering blade and no poisonous fangs to severe Riddle's life-force before he had a chance to fully resurrect himself.
After all, the young Dark Lord was already restored; Harry had provided him with the perfect means for that.
"Won't you ask me to give you your want, this time?" The smooth tenor was exactly as Harry remembered it for it had haunted him many nights in his sleep.
"What do you want?" Harry shot back, exasperated and much too tired to prolong this.
Riddle clucked his tongue, waving a finger at him admonishingly as he stepped closer.
"Did I not make myself clear enough for you earlier?"
Harry jaw clenched tightly. "You talked about my magic, but you didn't say what the bloody hell you want from me. Why? Why did you do this?!"
Riddle hummed quietly, tapping the borrowed wand almost speculatively against his open palm. "I could say because I'm cruel but I suppose, it's my motivation you're wondering about."
The teen smiled sardonically, and that was all the warning Harry was given.
In the blink of an eye, Riddle was invading his space, snaking a long arm around his waist to pull him away from the wall and flush against his own body, while fingers buried themselves in his hair, pulling and tugging until Harry's head was bent backwards.
Hot breath fanned across his face, and Harry's eyes grew large, his body unbearably tense.
The steely grip around his waist strengthened and Harry stopped breathing altogether for a second there, mouth parting in a muted groan.
Those dark orbs never left his face, roving over its every detail with a level of fixation that couldn't possibly be healthy. Harry had never thought such intensity could actually be contained inside a single pair of eyes, and at that moment, he had a hunch he could guess Riddle's answer before it was given to him.
"To possess every fiber of your being; it's what I desire, and exactly what I'll acquire."
Harry's heart gave a little flutter of pure panic, the raw conviction in that tone giving no room for doubt. There was no question about it; what Riddle wanted, he got, it was as simple as that.
He pushed at the other's unyielding chest with his hands, squirming to break free.
Riddle bent down abruptly and in response to the proximity, Harry's motions ceased just as suddenly.
He wetted his lips, tongue drawing slowly along the flesh in such a way, like someone preparing to dig into the scrumptious meal he had been craving for the longest time. Riddle's face was so close that his tongue actually grazed Harry's lips somewhere along its journey, making the boy inhale sharply.
"Mine," It was whispered against reddish lips, a single promise, dark and ominous and it had Harry's body freezing up long before a smoldering mouth descended upon him, seemingly molding against his lips.
"Mphhh!" he tried to speak, to dislodge himself and protest, but in retrospect, what he achieved was only an offering for more as Riddle's tongue delved inside his mouth, relentless in its exploration and steadily divesting Harry of his very oxygen with its ferocity.
Knees finally buckling beneath him, Harry whimpered into the kiss and the responding growl sent violent tremors throughout his body.
Riddle pulled back, and Harry's oversensitive skin erupted in goosebumps from the sudden rush of cold air against his burning lips. He didn't know what sort of picture he was making, but Riddle's pupils dilated as they took him in, the teen plunging back in after another breathy whisper of 'Mine!'
That one word, so much more fervent than the previous time, had the kiss matching it in sentiment and Harry's inexperienced lips were soon bruising under its force, tearing slightly in the places where harsh nips were being bestowed.
Entirely supported by Riddle's hold on him, Harry felt like he was drowning.
Each time they'd break apart for air, the other boy would always mutter that single word, and it felt like a brand against whatever available patch of skin it was breathed; a verbal assertion of claim to go along with the red mark on Harry's hand. Too worn out, Harry had no strength remaining to fight him off. He could only shut his eyes and endure.
He couldn't escape, not now and not ever, and he had no one to blame but his own stubbornness and naivety.
If only he had gone straight to Dumbledore after starting to see the signs…
Things might have even ended up differently.
Two months ago…
Harry blinked in rapid succession, one hand coming up to reach beneath his glasses and rub at his left eye in the hope of relieving some of the sleepiness, while the other clutched tighter the lit flashlight. He shifted quietly underneath the cover he had drawn over his head to shut off most of the flashlight's intensity; the last thing he wanted was for one of his relatives to spot the dim illumination underneath the door of his bedroom on their way downstairs for a glass of water.
He looked at the potion's book sprawled open before him and then turned a bleary glare towards the roll of parchment laid upon its right page.
The simple title Shrinking Potions that he had scrawled at the top seemed as though it was mocking him.
He felt like groaning at the prospect of going to sleep without adding another word to his essay other than its prearranged title for the second night in a row. But his old, second year's potions book was of no significant help, either. The chapter about that particular potion contained nothing but its ingredients and the proper way it should be brewed.
Somehow he doubted Snape had assigned them with an entire roll of parchment essay if he only wanted the information inside their previous year's textbook.
Having been aware all along of the trouble he was going to face with his Potions Professor's essay, he had stowed a small ink bottle, some gathered up parchments and his quill inside his school robes' pockets. The potions book he had tucked up against his stomach and held it secure by tugging extra hard at the belt of his school trousers. With his physique, after pulling back down his shirt and vest, there was no difference with the little extra something underneath the layer of clothes.
He had had a bit of trouble with breathing, but since his mission was accomplished, it had been worth it.
Hermione jerked her head the other way while he was making preparations, face flushed to the roots of her hair, while Ron was giving him a very disturbed look.
"Dude, you give dedication to holiday homework an entirely new meaning."
Harry snorted, throwing a bunched up piece of parchment from inside his trunk at his friend's head, snickering when it hit him square in the face before landing on the floor.
"Knowing my relatives, I'll have no access to my school things for the rest of the summer. And since Snape gave us the toughest assignment out of all the teachers, I need to at least write something before next year starts or he'll use it as more excuse to take off House points right at the start of term."
Ron stared at him agape, before he let out a low whistle. "Man! It sure sucks to be you."
Harry smiled when Hermione's History of Magic textbook connected with the side of Ron's head, the loud thud resonating throughout their compartment, followed by a delayed, drawn-out whimper.
And he had certainly been right in his assumption.
After receiving him at the train station – the Muggle one, of course, not the platform inside the barrier where the Hogwarts Express made back and forth journeys – they had driven back to Privet Drive and after ordering him to go change out of the abominating clothes he was wearing, locked every single thing that had to do with the magical world inside the cupboard under the stairs under heavy lock and key.
But when he was done with the fastest exchange of clothes he had ever made, Harry had stuffed the belongings he had stored while still on the train under the loose floorboard beneath his bed as soundlessly as possibly. Replacing the floorboard and making sure that nothing seemed out of place, he had straightened his wrinkled, too large t-shirt and made his way down where he passed Uncle Vernon his Hogwarts uniform.
The huge man had refused to so much as look at the clothing, instead keeping a close eye on Harry as the boy shut them in his trunk himself.
And to think he had gone to such lengths – enduring the most stuffing ride ever because the book was digging in his ribs the entire way back – only to fail at the essay anyway.
Seriously, he might as well not have touched it at all during the holiday.
If only he had been back at Hogwarts… the library would have surely been able to provide him with at least something more than a mere list of ingredients.
And asking Hermione about it was crossed out since his relatives had forbidden him to write to any of his friends. The only reason they agreed to releasing Hedwig at nights so she could feed was because one of the neighbors inquired about the peculiar screeches that could be heard at random from the house.
Not only did the Dursleys lie about getting a pet parrot for their little Dudders, they were also giving Harry the stink eye for forcing them under the neighborhood's scrutiny and had shortened his meals down to one a day for two whole weeks.
Of course, each morning they'd storm Harry's bedroom in their search for any envelope or package that Hedwig might have brought in upon her return.
And no letters meant no news from his friends all summer long, a situation that steered too close to last year for his liking, but it also meant no way for him to ask Hermione for help with their potions work; he had no doubt the girl was already done with most, if not all, of their homework.
How precious was this? He actually wanted to do his school essays but his guardians wouldn't let him!
He imagined that Ron's mum would probably be chasing him around the Burrow with a broomstick to get him to do his own homework, Fred and George as well now that he thought about it.
A weary sigh passed through his lips.
He pulled the roll closer to him and a sheet of parchment was dislodged with the sharp movement, extracting itself from the rest and sliding against his knee.
The boy blinked sluggishly at it, lifting the roll of parchment he had started with to inspect the sheets, spreading them one by one in search of any ripping signs that would indicate the extra sheet had been torn from within the roll's masses. Finding none, however, he shrugged; he must have grabbed it accidentally from his trunk in his hurry.
Uncorking the ink bottle carefully, he dipped his quill inside the black liquid and started on the lone sheet, listing the ingredients the book instructed with at least a minute pause between each to listen for any sounds in the bedrooms surrounding his.
He nodded once, satisfied, when he was done. He'd just make a few notes for the time being; no reason to waste an entire roll for that.
He shut the bottle of ink and put down his quill, studying the list and comparing it with the book's.
Minced daisy roots.
Sliced caterpillars.
One rat spleen.
Shouldn't it specify how many caterpillars were needed, though? Like with the spleen? Oh, wait, it did in the text.
Harry's chin jutted against his chest and he jostled awake, flashing the light at a better angle on the sheet as he went on.
A splash of cowbane.
A dash of leech juice.
Seriously? As if the rat spleen wasn't enough they'd have to squash leeches and extract the juices too.
His eyelids fluttered a couple of times, the words going in and out of focus.
No, really, he was thankful they were wearing gloves during Potions for this sort of thing. Still, it made touching those ingredients, and all the ingredients he had come in contact with so far, no less disgusting.
Green orbs, abnormally dim in the limited light, rolled back inside his skull, body tipping forwards as he succumbed to fatigue.
A faint grunt escaped his lips when he landed atop the flashlight, but Harry didn't open his eyes again, already out cold.
With Hedwig out to hunt and no more scratches on the parchment from the quill, silence fell over the narrow room, the curtains billowing occasionally in the summer breeze and permitting the moonlight to shine through. It wasn't much to stir the slumbering boy though, and thus, inside the darkness of the makeshift tent on the bed, the black letters of the list that were being absorbed inside the parchment went completely unnoticed.
The tiny paper cut on Harry's index finger from where he had prickled it in the sheet's corner on his way down was steadily splotching the parchment, the dark red dots disappearing one by one the moment they landed on the page, sucked as though hungrily compared to the ink.
A while later, the cut oozed no more blood and with nothing else to absorb, the page was left utterly spotless…
Like nothing had ever touched its surface.
to be continued…
Thoughts on the fic?
The slash part will come later, the next chapters will be of the events that led to Harry's predicament.