nevermind the end

by slexenskee

Meanwhile, Harry and Voldemort have a lot of sex. This started out as gratuitous noncon porn that somehow wrote it's way into lots of feelings and an existential crisis. I'm sorry, I don't know what's wrong with me.

2. this could be

I feel very out of sorts for the rest of the week, like half of me wandered away sometime in the night without telling me, and hasn't returned. I hope that half is in the Caribbean, drinking an inadvisable amount of girly drinks for the both of us. At least a part of me might be enjoying life somewhere.

As it is, I am poking fruitlessly at my breakfast, wondering why I'm still not hungry even though I'm not being made to dine with the dark lord. I think I actually ate more when he was technically spoon feeding me than I have in the past couple weeks.

Hermione is utterly mutinous when I ace my Transfiguration essay. Combined with the magical and all-knowing potions book I found earlier this year, I actually might pass two classes at this rate. And if Voldemort keeps doing my homework, I might actually pass them all. Now if only I could somehow get him to take my NEWTs as well—I'd be set for life. Mcgonagall was incredibly impressed with my advanced knowledge of the principles of Transfiguration. I give her a very unconvincing smile, and pretend like I'm actually the one who wrote that.

She doesn't press me for any answers, though she does shoot me a knowing smirk every so often, as if to remind me that she knows there are incredibly kinky things that I apparently get up to at all hours of the night. This wouldn't have been untrue this time last year; as it is, it couldn't be any farther from reality these days.

It comes to me that maybe… there's a reason for that. Well, I mean, no shit, no one does a total one-eighty without a reason, especially someone like Voldemort. But I am no closer to figuring out what it was that made him change than I am of figuring out why there are no kinky things to speak of.

I portkey back almost immediately after class, feeling a mixture of both anxiety and anticipation. I don't really know what I feel, but it sort of feels like a really bad stomach ulcer. I don't see him when I open my eyes. I don't actually know how the portkey works—sometimes it brings me right to his side, other times it drops me off in the bedroom, like now. I guess it all depends on whether he's in his rooms are not. I can't make up my mind if I'm relieved that he's not here or disappointed. I want to kick myself. How can one person be so indecisive, all the time?

I stare sightlessly at the bed for some time, lost in thought. Do I just crawl in there and sleep? Or do I wait for him? Should I take my clothes off? Normally I wouldn't worry about any of this; if he wanted my clothes off he'd take them off; I wouldn't have to debate whether or not to sleep or stay up because I wouldn't have had the chance for the decision in the first place. I decide I'm far too tired to figure any of this out, so I transfigure my clothes into something comfortable and roll into the blanket. He can always just wake me up if he wants me.

Except, maybe he doesn't want me.

He doesn't wake me up, at any rate.

I find myself stirring in the night regardless, lost in some strange tidal wave of dreams that make no sense. They all drift away when I blink into wakefulness, enclosed in darkness. I don't know what time it is, but it is not quite early enough to be considered night, but not quite late enough to be considered morning.

Voldemort is beside me, staring unerringly at me—and appears to have been watching my sleeping form for some time.

I don't know what to make of it. I never know what to do when he does this, aside from fidget nervously. Why is he looking… so intensely? More importantly: what is he thinking? I used to mistake him for an incredibly evil, horrible man with no other interest than providing great misery. But this does not seem to be entirely true: and he has instead proved himself to be the most difficult, complex and utterly nonsensical person on the planet. There apparently is a reason for what he does, but whatever that reason is makes absolutely no sense to me, and by extension neither does anything he does.

But as I watch him back, a strange thought strays past me, one that has flickered past before, but I have never paid much attention to.

I reach out before I can think better of it, though I don't know what I'm reaching for. My hand ends up in his hair, and I am moving closer, at such an infinitely slow pace I think tectonic plates are moving faster than me. But I am giving myself ample time to search for any expression on his face—any at all. Nothing, as usual.

But when my lips finally find his, he surges towards me, with a ferocity that completely takes me by surprise. Not because of its existence, but of its intensity. It's been weeks since we've done any of this, or anything even remotely intimate. I can't remember the last time he kissed me.

Now that I'm thinking on it though, that might be the issue. I think this might have been happening all along; it's not that he doesn't want me—an astounding amount of empirical evidence proves otherwise—but he's waiting for me. Waiting for me to initiate it first. Waiting for me to kiss him.

I don't know what to do with that.

Because it would stand to reason that if I started something first—completely and absolutely of my own volition—than I would be wanting him back. Do I? Want him back? I've no idea. On the subject of empirical evidence, it currently is saying yes. If I didn't, why would I be here now then? Why wouldn't I have just let him take his stupid ring and forever be done with him? To be completely honest though… the facts might be saying yes, but I still think I'm saying no.

Unsurprisingly, it is a matter of moments before he is overtaking the kiss, rolling me onto my back, pinning me to the bed.

And then, he stops. He pulls away, looking back at me. For a moment I am out of breath and very confused; why is he stopping? It occurs to me that maybe he is… waiting. I blink up at him, studying him carefully. There is nothing on his features that would suggest it, but then there has never been anything easily discernible from his expression in the entire time I've known him. Another moment of withheld silence passes, only solidifying my theory. He really is waiting for some kind of affirmation.

Just because I know this, though, doesn't mean I am any closer to figuring out why.

He could take what he wanted, regardless of whatever I thought about it. Why isn't he?

I lean up then, brushing my lips against his own, licking shyly against him. The answer is immediate—immediate, and utterly overwhelming. One of his arms rests by my head, the other warm and heavy, sliding underneath my shirt. But he doesn't move any farther. I wonder if he would if I asked him to—if I asked him to fuck me. Well, asked him and actually meant it. Not just as empty words parroted back to him.

More than that—I wonder if he wouldn't.

I don't ask. The consuming kiss mellows in ferocity, dwindling into something soft and slow. And when I start to get really sleepy and begin to drift off, his mouth leaves my own to burn marks into the side of my neck; insistent, but not demanding. And when I well and truly am about to fall asleep, he pulls me towards him until I am snugly fitted against him, a possessive arm wrapped around me. In this position his arousal is fairly obvious; also obvious is his intent to do absolutely nothing at all about it. This is significant, somehow, but I will return to the matter when I actually have the brain power to think clearly on it. As it is, I am too tired to care.

.

.

.

Someone is shaking me awake.

It doesn't take much, honestly. Whatever sleep had taken hold of me was restless and uneasy, and one soft touch was enough to jolt me back into awareness. I blink up at the dark ceiling, stuck in that place that's just out of reach for dreams but not quite reality again. My eyes are wet and something hot slides down my cheek. Tears.

I blink some more.

I've been crying?

I wipe the back of my hand over my eyes and confirm this. Great. Who even knows why—I genuinely cannot remember whatever it was I was dreaming about, aside from the occasional moment drifting over me. Uncle Vernon, of course. For reasons that still boggle me to this day, I seem to have far more subconscious psychological issues with him than I do Voldemort.

Speaking of Voldemort, he is hovering above me with a very strange expression. I can't tell what it is. It doesn't look like irritation—which is his blanket response to my stupid nightmares. It's not indifference, though.

"Sorry," I murmur, closing my eyes again. "Was I shouting again?" I ask with great resignation. Maybe I should get someone to gag me before I sleep. Actually, I should probably cast a silencing charm over myself before I sleep. I say this, but then I always forget to do it when I'm actually falling asleep.

"No," he answers, after a moment.

I sniffle, wiping at my nose, terribly annoyed with myself. Crying is gross. "Oh," I say after a moment. And then, shifting to face him fully, "Did I wake you?"

"No," he answers again. "Go back to sleep, Harry."

He moves away then, straightening up from where he was leaning over me, leaving the bed. For reasons I don't really want to own up to right now, I reach for him before he stands, throwing my hand over his own, lying on the sheets. He is frozen in place, startled. This does not deter me as I grab it tightly, sitting up and pressing against him, hiding my face in his shoulder.

"You don't have to go," I mumble into the fabric of his shirt.

He doesn't leave, but he seems reluctant to stay. A heavy pause drapes over us; I turn further into him.

He sighs then, at great length. "What were you dreaming of, Harry?"

I don't reply.

I've never told anyone about what I dream about, and I don't feel like changing that. Anyway, Voldemort is the last person I would ever want to open up to about that. I know I said I would one day relish the opportunity to relay that he had failed. He didn't break me; he didn't get the chance to—someone had already beaten him to it. But I know I'd never actually do it. I can't even work up the—bravery? Courage? Stupidity?—to tell Hermione or Ron, and they know me the most, they're my closest friends.

It's a long time until I find the words; "I don't remember." But it is a heinous lie. And obvious; I am a very bad liar.

I close my eyes, feeling vacuous and empty in the sudden stillness. Perhaps what I hate most about these dreams is how disoriented I am after them. It's not like I really remember them all that well anyway, but the aftermath is annoying. Annoying, and long. It'll be a while before I stop feeling so out of sorts.

Something moves against my fingers.

I look down; he is gently prying my grip apart with his other hand. And once he has accomplished this he stands, turned in the other direction.

"I think perhaps it would be better if I left you to your rest."

And then he is out the door.

I'm stuck staring at the empty doorway with a completely blank expression, uncomprehending. What just happened? For a moment this thought lingers in my head, unanswered, simply floating about. I blink a few more times, before my brain reminds me of its existence and presents to me the obvious answer. It takes a bit, but then I am struggling out of the mess of blankets, darting towards the door. He is not in his chambers. I hesitate briefly at the exit of them, before a strange determination takes its place and I'm wrenching it open and darting out into the open.

I've never actually been here before. I don't even know where we are. A house, obviously, though mansion may be a more accurate terminology for it. It is fucking gigantic—not to mention a total rat maze. They should post 'you are here' signs around this place, honestly. Or at the very least provide complimentary maps.

I would have preferred to never have stepped foot in this part of the manor and never have need of either of those, but unfortunately my conscious is getting the better of me. Or at least, I hope it's my conscious. Because if it's not than it would be my heart that is dragging me out here, and that is far worse.

I skid around a corner, out of breath, eyes widening.

My first thought is that I am very, very fortunate that I had the foresight to at least put something on before I sprinted out into the manor's hallways. I've no idea how utterly mortifying and terrible it would have been otherwise. Any run in with Snape is disastrous, I cannot imagine one without clothes.

Not that I'm exactly… appropriately dressed. I had enough foresight to grab something off the floor, yes, but not enough for anything else. Which is why I'm wearing (read: swimming in) a shirt that is clearly not my own. It is far too big; the collar is wide open and one side is slipping off my shoulder, half the buttons aren't done up, and the ones that are have been haphazardly buttoned wrong. I'm not sure what I must look like, but I would prefer to live my life without ever knowing.

"Professor…" I greet, very slowly.

I'm reminded that Professor Snape was, indeed, there for my embarrassing display in Dumbledore's office. Or at least he was for a part of it. But it was long enough to… put some pieces together, so he shouldn't look so surprised to see me.

It could have been worse, I console myself. This is true; I can name like five other people that would have been worse, just off the top of my head.

I see a strange, conflicted expression cross his face. He looks like he's swallowed a lemon. A lemon that made him really sad. I'm not sure exactly what it is. He gives me a once over, which is deeply disturbing. I hope its just incredulity on my attire—the alternative is too heinous to contemplate.

Also, I really hope it's not pity. That's nice of him and all, but completely unwarranted and a bit annoying.

"Good evening, Mr. Potter," he drawls at length, but even that is missing its usual snark. Where is the sneer of disgust, the dripping hatred, the acerbic insults? Snape's hatred of me is so predictable it's almost rather reassuring—not seeing it genuinely concerns me. I would ponder this further, but right now I do not have the time to even spare it a thought.

"And to you, Professor." I return in a rush. "Um... if you'll excuse me…"

"I, um, am kind of in a hurry—" I conclude, awkward as ever. "So…"

Smooth, Harry, I think to myself. Really fucking smooth.

And then I am sliding around him, and turning the corner as fast as I can. Hopefully he doesn't follow me.

Not that I even know where I'm going. I'm… following my nose, so to speak. It seems silly to think that I'm trying to find Voldemort in this sprawling maze through instinct alone, but I'm pretty sure it's going to work. That horcrux connection is working in my favor right now.

I finally find him in a drawing room, at least two floors down. I tried to count the stairs, but there were a lot of them and they weren't always a staircase. I have absolutely no idea where I am, so it is with great relief that I push the door open and see him looking down at the table. It is long, and full of what I think are maps. I'm not exactly paying attention to the documents, the décor, or anything else for that matter. Ignoring everything, except for him. This seems to be a running theme in my life.

"Tom," I say, for lack of anything else.

He turns around, and his indifference breaks into complete, genuine surprise. "Harry," he returns, blinking.

I cross the room, my bare feet against the marble the only sound in the otherwise vacuous space. I throw my arms around him. There is something very satisfying about it—something I normally choose to ignore. I don't really know what it is. Probably that stupid horcrux stuff, who knows. Maybe if I squeezed Nagini really hard I'd feel the same way.

For a time or two I don't say anything, resting my head against him and pretending that the world doesn't actually exist, that it is all just the convoluted result of my over imaginative mind. But even I couldn't have come up with something as fucked up as this, so that works as well as you can imagine it did.

"It's not what you think," I insist at length, as if picking up a thread of conversation.

One hand seems to involuntarily rise to my head, getting lost in my hair. "I don't need an explanation, Harry."

Liar. I tighten my grip. I have this incessant need to tell him the truth, which I acknowledge is stupid and maybe even hazardous to my health but ignore anyway. I shouldn't be feeling bad at all; I have nothing to be sorry for. I shouldn't even care what he feels—if he's actually, you know, capable of feeling things at all.

I want to tell him that it's not him; that, for some inexplicable reason, he is not the one who haunts my dreams in the night. That might be the painfully obvious conclusion to come to, but it's wrong.

I don't tell him this. "Then can I have one instead?" I counter. I don't wait for him to respond. "Why did you leave?"

There is a long silence after that. I expected it, though. I don't actually think he would answer that.

I reach up very carefully and tilt his face towards me. Unfortunately, it is as stoic as usual.

"Tom," I whisper to him. He grips me tighter, almost reflexively, and something dark flickers in his gaze.

I lean in closer, until I can nose against his ear. "I want you to come back." I pull away, searching him. "…Will you?" For the first time in what seems like eternity, it appears I have said the right thing.

His arms circle around me, until I am completely trapped in them. And then the room disappears.

.

.

It's a lot easier to close my eyes and lean into him when it's so dark I can't see anything. It's almost as if I could pretend this was all some secret, diminutive universe of just the two of us, and when light peels away all the shadow it will wash away this eternity too. As if I could tell him whatever I wanted in this moment, and never have to live to deal with the consequences.

He is always so very warm, and surprisingly comfortable as I burrow in next to him. I'm reminded that this is also something of a new development, even if it doesn't seem like it. I remember a time when I would have thought he'd lost his mind if he tried to hold me like this, or that he'd been replaced by a pod person or something. I'm not sure if the thought is making me maudlin or courageous; probably a bit of both.

"I never remember my dreams," I confess, soft, as if it is only meant to exist in the space between us.

He doesn't reply, but at the very least I know he's listening. One of his hands rests against my hip, thumb rubbing small circles against my skin. I don't think he means for it to be reassuring, but it is all the same.

"But I…" Something funny lodges in my throat. I'm taken aback by its existence. Why is this so hard? I swallow with no small amount of difficulty, attempting to forcefully drag the words out. "It doesn't matter, really. They're all the same thing anyway."

It's strange, I think absently, how much of a struggle this is. I acknowledge with indifference that even I am surprised with how difficult this is—I knew it was something I'd prefer to never talk about or think about for the rest of my life, but I'm still unprepared to feel this unmitigated terror. It confuses me, really.

It feels like an endless silence has draped onto us. I realize it's been a stupidly long amount of time since I've said anything, but am still unable to do anything about it.

It's with great effort that I finally do. I squeeze my eyes shut, leaning against him. "My Uncle…" I manage to say—but it is impossible to get anything else out. As it is I already feel horrible, full of some really shitty emotion that I can't explain.

Adding to the misery of the moment is another unending, horrifying silence. It is so loud I think I'm drowning in it.

I decide that it is impossible and utterly fruitless to attempt to continue that sentence, so I give up on it. Instead, I find his hand in the dark, holding it tightly as I draw closer, until there's no space left. "It's not you." I tell him, quietly. "It's never been you."

"So…" I feel like all the breath has left me, "You, um… you don't have to leave."

He doesn't leave.

I feel—well, incredibly lame, awkward, and embarrassed… and okay, mortified beyond belief and completely unable to understand myself. Am I really turning to Lord Voldemort for comfort? In what universe would that actually be a logical thing to do? Because it's not this one. This does nothing to stop it from happening either way, though in defense of the universe's laws of physics and all that, he's not actually doing much aside from laying next to me. I don't even know if that counts as consoling someone. Still, it's far more than what I would have expected.

That, and he doesn't appear to be in the mood to wrangle the true explanation out of me. A very strange gesture, coming from him, because he usually relishes the idea of my psychological trauma. Or does he? Because he doesn't seem all that enthused about it right now. Maybe its only psychological trauma induced by him; another weird obsession thing. Who knows. I table that thought for later, deciding that this is a whole other debacle that I don't' want to get into.

.

.

.

The problem with the whole 'tabling it for later' thing is that I am an incredible and inspirational procrastinator. If I don't want to think about something, or do something, I've made working around it and ignoring the issue into a minor art form.

With the advent of the sudden existence of my free time, I actually can play Quidditch again. I don't even have to do anything but remark that I can stay for the afternoons in the Gryffindor common room for about two dozen people to beg me to come back to the team. Most of them don't even play Quidditch; they just want to stop seeing Gryffindor lose.

I agree with this sentiment. The idea of letting Slytherin with the Quidditch Cup is deeply disturbing.

But Quidditch inadvertently brings me back to a subject I've been avoiding for the past couple weeks.

Namely: Voldemort. Voldemort, and everything about him that I've been trying not to think about.

And more to the point,:Voldemort and me. Uh, Voldemort, me, and sex, actually. I don't even know what to consider us anymore; what we are to each other has changed so many fucking times in my life it actually makes my brain hurt. It's changed—but I don't think any of those feelings ever left. I still hate him. I still fear him, in a way. I think I might actually despise him to my very core; unfortunately, having a hatred that deep for him is the problem. At this point, it doesn't matter whether it's love or hatred; it's irrelevant. It is a very strong and deep-seated emotion that will never leave me regardless.

On the subject of our every changing relationship, we're on this new kick where we don't have sex. As in, at all. As in—nothing since we defiled a precious historic artifact.

It's… strange.

To go from the most horrible sex possible to mildly okay sex to really good consensual sex and then to absolutely nothing is… well, I would have said impossible. It's like he decided to join the monastery or something.

But I have a sinking suspicion that the reason for his new vow of celibacy has less to do with heading to the mountains to live with the monks in solitude, and more to do with the fact that I haven't asked for it.

And to be completely honest, I don't know if I ever will.

It's late when practice ends—it's my first one back, so everyone was rather overly enthusiastic about it—practically dark out and far past the hour I should have been returning. I'm a little worried, actually. Will he be mad? He didn't exactly give me a curfew or something, but he still makes me dine with him and for once I'm so hungry I think I might devour the whole table, and it's a bit past dinner time.

I wave off my friends, urging them to go to the dining hall without me. No one knows exactly how I have my 'training to defeat the dark lord', and I'd prefer to keep them guessing about what that ambiguous subheader means. I don't intend to enlighten them.

I portkey into a sitting room I've never been to, blinking into my new surroundings. There's a warm, roaring fireplace, handsome dark wood furniture—a lot of M's, actually. On everything. A thought occurs to me: are we in Malfoy Manor? Horror strikes me to the quick. Good god, have I been staying at Malfoy's house this whole time? The horror quickly becomes vindictive pleasure when I realize this means I've been defiling his house this whole time.

Whatever I'm thinking of about Malfoy leaves me all at once when I catch sight of the dark lord, all coherent thought washing away like water in my hands.

"Hi," I say, lamely, for lack of anything with more significance.

I feel overwhelmed when the bright, cinerous eyes turn towards me. He has the prophet in one hand, a tumbler in the other; the fire casts warm patters over him, the room, the air between us. Nagini is by the hearth, curled up and basking in the warmth. It's a strange sight to see—it is all so very… domestic. It's a side of him I've never really seen, and somehow being included in makes something strange constrict in my chest.

"You're late," he observes, not appearing angry but then, just because I can't see it doesn't mean it's not there.

"Sorry," I reply, sheepishly. "I—uh, had Quidditch practice."

He raises a brow. "Yes, I had deduced that much on my own." He agrees, darkly.

I blink rapidly, feeling a heat rise to my cheeks. The look he's giving me… well, it's not exactly difficult to understand.

I look down at myself. I'm a mess, actually, and in desperate need of a shower. I'm also wet from the misty air of the Quidditch pitch—and, you know, splattered with mud. I don't even want to know what my hair looks like—or what's in my hair, for that matter. I've found a lot of crazy things in there after a Quidditch game.

None of this deters Voldemort, who looks like he wants to bend me over the couch and fuck my brains out.

For a brief moment, I find it a bit amusing. Who would have thought the dark lord had a thing for Quidditch breeches? Well, he's certainly not alone in that; I'm pretty sure it's like everyone's secret fantasy. It's flattering, I guess. And unnerving. But definitely not surprising. I don't know what it is about me in particular that he derives so much fascination out of, but whatever it is he's never made much of a secret about it. He wants me: preferably naked, in his bed, maybe tied up.

Right. Definitely not a secret.

And anyway, that's the whole crux of the matter right now—he might want it, but I don't think I do.

"Um," I look away, flustered. "Right so it just ended…"

He blinks at me, slowly, looking like he's not hearing a word I'm saying, and is instead mentally undressing me.

"And I'm really hungry." I confess, feeling like I could have said that a bit more tactfully, but I'm far too hungry to care. Quidditch takes a lot out of you, you know. It might actually be enough to get me to eat a decent amount of food, for the first time in months.

He makes a noncommittal noise than, appearing to pull himself from whatever fantasy he was having, gesturing to the comfy looking armchair across from him. I move towards it somewhat guiltily, because this really nice looking chair is about to be wet and muddy and totally unsalvageable. The moment I sit down food pops up on the end table to my right. I jolt in surprise, peering down at it curiously. House elves. Honestly. Sorry Hermione, but they're like the best creatures to ever grace the earth, and I don't plan on having to give them up any time soon.

When I look up again, I have to tear my gaze back down, blushing furiously. I'm not entirely sure what he's thinking right now, but I'm pretty sure it is a fantasy that involves me, Quidditch breeches and probably not anything else. Again, I am weirdly flattered, and also mildly uncomfortable.

I wish I could make up my mind right now. Something hot and heavy curls in my stomach at the idea of him thinking of me like that—but at the same time, all the air in my lungs seems to freeze in terror, and a trepidation that I can't control seizes my heart. I don't really know how to explain it, or how to explain myself, either. Is this a rational reaction? On the one hand, it's probably like an ingrained pavlovian response at this point to be fucking terrified of even the mere mention of 'Voldemort' and 'sex'. On the other hand, we had fantastic sex a few weeks ago, and I definitely wasn't complaining through any of that.

This is going to sound ridiculous, but it sort of feels like that moment right before I pull a Wronski Feint. The idea of vaulting myself thousands of feet in the air is terrifying on general principle, but I know that I'm capable of executing it correctly (and have done so thousands of times) and I have nothing to fear. Terror at the idea of having sex with Voldemort is a perfectly rational response, even if I know that this time I don't have anything to fear.

I frown at my food, stabbing a particularly stubborn carrot.

Working with this analogy, I can probably use the same technique I used to get over my fear of the Wronski Feint to get over my fear of having sex with Voldemort, right? Except, how exactly did I do that? I munch thoughtfully. I'm pretty sure Ron pushed me off my broom, is how that happened.

Great, I mentally despair. I don't think Ron is going to be much help with this one. I set my fork down with great finality, sighing to myself. Well, if I can't make up my mind the least I can do is try not to be… overtly sexual or anything. The last thing I want to do is turn him on. Except I unintentionally accomplished that already. Right. No more Quidditch breeches.

A pop to my side distracts me. I smile softly when I see that the tray of food has been cleared and a bowl of ice cream has replaced it. Vanilla—my favorite. These house elves know me far too well.

I shift around on the chair, trying to get comfortable when I'm still in muddy, soaking wet clothes. I look up and accidentally meet Voldemort's gaze—which has not strayed once from me—and hastily pull my eyes away the moment they make contact with his. He still seems pretty engaged in that fantasy of his. A thought occurs to me; I'm probably only making it infinitely worse by fidgeting around like this. But what am I supposed to do? Trying to take them off is only going to do more harm than good right now.

I decide to distract myself with dessert. It works rather well; dessert is my favorite part of any meal, in no small part because I went so long without it. That's probably why vanilla is my favorite; I'm so unused to sweet things that the more elaborate flavors only serve to give me a toothache. I make a happy noise of approval, practically cleaning the entire bowl in one go.

I make the unfortunate decision to look up then, meeting Voldemort's eyes once again. They are dark and devouring, and the heat of them catches me in comprehensive surprise; so much surprise that my spoon falters right before it reaches my mouth, and I end up halfway missing and getting most of it all over myself. And the chair. This poor piece of furniture.

My scar twinges, and not in an unpleasant way. It's burning, but the smoldering heat only serves to warm me pleasantly, not burn me into incoherent pain. I look up again; it only takes one glance at him to realize I have made the situation infinitely worse.

Hell, I think disparagingly, flushing in the most horrendous fashion possible. What did I think was going to happen? I am eating a sticky, creamy white liquid substance and I've just gotten it all over myself.

I stand abruptly, red in the face and refusing to meet his gaze. "I'm—um," I give a flustered, incredibly vague wave to the other side of the room, "Uh, just gonna change… out of this…" And then I make a break for it, deciding that the only way to stop making this situation worse is to just vacate the premises.

No, I think mournfully as I scurry away, knowing Voldemort, the only way to stop making this situation worse is to put a paper bag over my head and cover myself with a burlap sack. Or maybe that would just make him think of bondage. Oh hell.

.

.

.

I escape into the shower, intent on sitting in here forever and dying here. As it is I just silently freak out and try not to get mud everywhere.

Why can't I just make up my goddamn mind? It's not as if I'm debating the merits of nuclear war with the Russians or something. This isn't rocket science. Actually now that I'm thinking on it rocket science might be the lesser of two evils here; at least with science you can rationalize things out and rely on logic to find your answer. Feelings have nothing to do with rationality—if anything, they always seem to be totally irrational—and follow no sense of logic.

I should just go for it, I decide, even though I would prefer to do anything but. I'm psyching myself out—going with my running Quidditch analogy, it's the same thing I do before a big game. A part of me is saying I can't do this, I don't want to do this, I just want to go back to Gryffindor tower and sleep. The other part of me is catching the game winning snitch.

By the time I turn off the shower I feel determined enough to see this through, grabbing a towel and a change of clothes, before deciding the clothes are counterintuitive and just going with the towel.

He's not there when I walk out, which is awkward.

I look around, suddenly at a total loss at what to do. I hadn't thought up a contingency plan for this scenario. I take off the towel, attempt to dry my hair one more time before I hop into bed and snuggle under the blankets. He's got really nice sheets, okay. And pillows. Actually, the bed is nice as a whole. For most of the time I've known him it's been the only saving grace to staying with him.

The soft fabric is comforting, but not nearly enough to stave off my own rampaging thoughts. Above all else is an anxiousness that angers me as much as it unnerves me. I hate this feeling; fear and anticipation and the cold feeling of being trapped of your own volition.

I hear the door open, and footsteps approaching the bedroom, and I feel as if I should look up or something but instead I just keep hiding under the blankets. Hah, some Gryffindor bravery. I can't hear him; my breath catches in my throat and I feel like my heartbeat drowns out all the sound in the room. I almost jump when the bed dips behind me, and then a long, warm line of skin slips in behind me. His hand makes a cursory pass over me, stopping with surprise when his fingers grasp my waist, pulling me closer.

"You're not wearing any clothes," he notices, darkly.

I shake my head, too nervous to say anything else.

For a long moment, I wonder what he'll do to capitalize on this. Then his hand dips lower, over my stomach, before smoothing up my chest. Cold fear freezes in my throat, and I remind myself how ridiculous it is for me to be afraid. His lips graze against the nape of my neck, and if anything it makes it worse.

"You're trembling," he observes, breath hot and wet and making it even worse.

This is stupid, I point out to myself, and make a conscious effort to stop. I turn over in his arms, until I'm facing him, pulling his lips to mine and trailing my hands over his arms, shoulders, reaching for the buttons of his shirt. A numbness washes over me, one as familiar as an old friend. It is accompanied by a sharp relief. It is so much easier to slip into this feeling—so much easier to face the world like this. I am not particularly aware of my own fingers, making work of his shirt, or my mouth, moving against his own.

When he rolls me underneath him I feel indifferent to it; it doesn't bother me when he slowly spreads my legs apart, when his mouth lowers to my neck. My tremors have stopped, leaving nothing but a hollow cold that I welcome with open arms. His lips return to my own, glowing red eyes peering down at me with an overwhelming desire. I register this, but have no discernible reaction to it, receding into myself until I am submerged in a state of impassivity. I don't feel nervous: I don't feel anything. A slight desire to start up my ceiling tetris, maybe. My mind is made of only idle thoughts, a skimming surface with nothing beneath or above.

I feel his hands roving over me, fingers skimming down to grasp tightly at my hips, pulling me flush against him. When his lips return to mine after a long, leisurely tour of my body I open up for them diligently. They still quite suddenly, his eyes caught in my own.

They blink in surprise, growing wider, and then he is pulling away.

He sits up abruptly, leaving me cold and confused. His expression is volcanic and—conflicted. I don't understand it. He looks like he wants to curse me, livid anger in his eyes, but he does nothing of the sort.

I sit up on my elbows, resurfacing from my hiding place and staring up at him in confusion. "What's wrong?" What am I doing wrong, is what I'm really asking. This is what he wants; it is spectacularly obvious. I don't get where this anger is coming from.

He doesn't answer me, looking upon me with features I can't read. Or at least, I'm pretty sure I can't read them, because what I'm seeing now makes no sense. There is anger, a great deal of that, and frustration, and fear. It is a quick flicker in his eyes, but it is there nonetheless. This above all else confirms that I'm reading him wrong. The dark lord is not afraid of anything, least of all a naked, defenseless boy.

"What is it?" I continue, when he remains silent. "What—" I swallow thickly. "What do you want?" From me, goes unsaid. Because it is clearly something I'm not doing for him that he wants me to do. Except I cannot think of anything else he could possibly want from me.

"Not this." Is his curt reply.

I blink incredulously at him. Is that a joke? Who's he trying to fool here? "Not what?" I feel clarification is in order.

He makes an irritated noise. He moves away, actually rising to get out of the bed, reaching for his robe hanging on the bedpost. "Nothing," he returns, inscrutable. "I have matters to attend to. You are free to return to your school if you like."

To my surprise, I find myself catching his arm before he can get too far. "No," I shake my head, feeling like the air has left me. "I don't—that's not…" I give him a helpless glance. Why is he so goddamn difficult? I try to scrounge up whatever Gryffindor courage I have left, deciding that this is an issue that seriously needs to be addressed. One I had thought had been solved—clearly I was wrong.

"Please tell me," I curl my fingers around his arm, pressing beseechingly. "What am I doing wrong?"

He looks surprised by this. "Nothing," he says again, after a beat.

"Then why—" I make a frustrated noise. "Why do you keep stopping?"

He is silent for some time. So long that I assume he has no intentions of enlightening me. But his eyes are bright in the gloaming light, and the rage and frustration has drifted away, leaving an expression I can't read. He searches me at length, quiet and thoughtful.

"Because you don't want it, Harry."

I stare at him, uncomprehending.

My mouth parts slightly, eyes growing wide.

Oh.

I close my gaping jaw eventually, swallowing reflexively. "Why—" My throat feels so dry, all of a sudden, and all the air in the world seems to have left me. "Why does that matter?"

Because it hardly mattered before, so I don't understand why he cares now. That is such an… insignificant thing to worry about. At least, for him it is. It's certainly the last thing I expected him to say. Why does he care? It occurs to me that there is absolutely no way I will ever get an answer unless I ask. It is clearly not the kind of rationality I could logically walk my way through.

I frown, confused. "Why do you care?"

I expect him to lash out at me for that, but the dark lord only sighs. "Because I want you to want it, Harry."

This is patently untrue. "You've never cared about that before," I point out.

Something pensive flickers through his eyes. "No," he agrees. "And it was remiss of me."

I remind myself that air is necessary, drawing in a ragged breath. "What do you mean?" He is so close that I can feel the heat of him against me, even though we're not touching. He doesn't speak for a moment, gaze trailing up and down in tandem with his fingers, light against my skin.

"I wanted to own you," he says, hands squeezing against me, almost reflexively. "I did own you—you were mine, in every capacity. You were exactly how I wanted; submissive… obeying every single command I gave you. I had complete control over you… but it wasn't enough."

I don't say anything at first. "Oh." I say, stupidly, feeling like getting that one word out was perhaps the hardest struggle of my life. I have a question, but I don't want to know the answer. I need to, though. I need to know. "What… changed?"

"I thought that, perhaps, there was an even greater way of claiming you, and I was simply missing it."

I snort, something occurring to me; "So… you thought the answer was a baby?"

He makes a noncommittal noise. "I'll admit… the idea of you seeing you grow round with my child, and knowing that I did that to you—pleased me, but no."

My eyes flutter shut at that, the idea of it a little too much for me. Because I can imagine it—far too easily.

"It wasn't that, but what occurred afterwards. I fed you a love potion that night—did you know?"

"Yes." I scoff. That was kind of obvious.

"It was all a fallacy—but you were—"

He cuts himself off, staying silent for some time. I pull my head out from its hiding place in his neck, blinking curiously. He had no trouble telling me everything up until now… so what's so horrible that he can't say it?

"Different." He finishes, at length, and before I can fully comprehend this he flips us over, until he's looming above me and I'm trapped in the cage of his arms. His eyes are darkened with a dangerous desire, but a secret thrill runs through me anyway. "So very… responsive. And it was captivating. You were so eager and willing; open in a way that had never happened before. You wanted it."

I blush a little at that. Yeah, I remember; it was all very mortifying and I would prefer to never acknowledge what I said that night for the rest of my life.

His hand moves to thumb against my bottom lip; my eyes slip shut when he presses in slightly.

"It was all so addicting—a surrender far more rewarding than any I had made you do before."

His thumb pushes in further, and I find myself opening for it, letting it slide past my lips. "It was exactly what I wanted." I open my eyes; his own are staring down at me, smoldering and intense.

He pulls his thumb away. "But it was all al lie."

"And I couldn't get it back. No matter what I tried that satisfaction eluded me. You did everything I told you to, but not the way I wanted; you obeyed me in everything,—but there was always something missing. I wanted you the way you were that night, but couldn't find a way to command you to do it again."

His gaze is far too overwhelming, suddenly, and I feel trapped in it, pinned down.

"It was so very frustrating; I couldn't command you to want it. Perhaps I could go through the motions—making you do as I like—but it was never going to be enough anymore."

"Oh," I whisper, softly.

I feel really slow, and I don't have the words to formulate a response. I wrap my hands around him and pull him down onto me, for no other reason other than that I wanted him to be closer. I don't know who I'm trying to reassure right now. I guess it doesn't matter, the silence is comforting regardless.

I break it eventually. "I don't…" I start, helplessly. I don't even know what to say to a confession like that, On the one hand, it's really enlightened me to his recent about-face. On the other; what am I supposed to say to this. Is there a book on this kind of stuff? I vow to ask Hermione the next time I see her.

I swallow thickly, not oblivious to the way his eyes are drawn to it, as if he's thinking deeply about other things I've swallowed. The thought makes me severely uncomfortable, and nervous, and fearful. But for as much trepidation I feel there is an equal amount of heat that curls in my stomach at the idea of it.

"I don't know what you want me to say," I release a shaky breath. More importantly, I don't know how to feel. "I'm still… I don't…"

"I don't know if I can give you what you want." I shake my head, tense with a cold fear. The idea of having sex again makes something constrict in my chest.

His expression is inscrutable. "And what is it that you think I want?"

"Well, you know, um—doing that." I blush, furiously.

He looks down at me, unreadable and without response.

"Isn't it?" I prod, only half-way sure myself.

"No." Voldemort returns, after a long moment of deep scrutiny.

My throat runs dry as I try to swallow. "Then… what? What is it?"

"I want to own you, Harry." He says, very simply, as if this is a perfectly acceptable remark, with the same tone of voice as someone speaking ambivalently on today's weather.

"Um," I say, because how exactly is one supposed to respond to that. Finally I gather enough of myself to reply; "…Don't you already?" I feel it needs to be said. Has he forgotten that we didn't actually break that contract?

He scowls. "No." His expression remains inscrutable. "I wanted to own you; to possess you completely, to—to break you."

His hand rests against my head, curled tightly and shaking with a foreboding force; it is the only thing that gives away what he really feels. Suddenly he releases it, and something irritated and yet regretful crosses his features.

"In hindsight I suppose this was a valuable lesson." He admits, begrudging. "I wanted to own you—but you cannot own someone who doesn't want to be owned."

I nod slowly, feeling confused but strangely relieved. So it's… not about the sex? Or is he saying that it was all simply a byproduct of what he really wanted, which was me, submitting to him? Either way, something quiet and warm unfurls in my chest.

I smile at him. "Well, you figured it out eventually." I can't help but say. My humor dissipates into a pensive consideration. "I still don't know if I can give you what you want."

His eyes darken, and then he is quickly leaning down to brush his lips against mine; it is sharp with possession, as if he wants to keep the smile as his own. He has a thing for them, I think, which only makes that warmth grow tenfold.

"I'm not asking you to," he returns, when he releases my mouth. And then, perhaps a bit exasperated, "That would defeat the whole point, wouldn't it?"

I blink. "Oh. Yeah, I guess so."

With that, he rolls us until we're comfortably under the blanket, and I'm fitted snuggly against him. For some reason I find it perfectly acceptable to reach for his hand wrapped around me, holding it with my own, to lean back and sigh happily at the mouth against the nape of my neck. He is clearly aroused, but seems uninterested in doing anything about it. The observation is enough to keep that quiet warmth in my chest going the whole night long.

.

.

.

I don't know who I hate more right now, Professor Flitwick or Hermione. As it is I glower at the both of them. Those bastards. I think I hate them both equally—at the very least, they are both equally to blame.

It was Professor Flitwick who decided to add acting to his choir sessions, after all. I had assumed the charms professor was quite content with his singing students but apparently I was wrong. He wants more than just a choir—he wants an opera.

At any rate, it was Flitwick's idea to have the Spring Equinox play, The Four Fair Witches. Apparently the whole thing is a Hogwarts tradition—at the very least, I can be silently grateful we're not doing the Fountain of Fair Fortune, which apparently has been a Hogwarts classic for some time now. This is great and all; a play is wonderful! What fun for the students! I wouldn't have minded, honestly. What does it matter if he has all the Gryffindor boys as the strangely talented dancing village folk? Or the Slytherins as the Duke's castle servants (this was particularly hilarious); some Hufflepuff girls as fairies and some Ravenclaw boys as the mages?

No, this would all have been perfectly reasonable for me. Cutting in to Quidditch time, sure, but still reasonable. The Four Fair Witches is apparently a classic, and I wouldn't have minded having to be in it.

Aside from the fact that I am one of those four fair witches.

And it might have been Flitwick's idea to revive the Hogwarts theater, but it was Hermione who volunteered me as the lead role.

"I think you'll make an excellent girl," she enthuses, smiling at me winsomely.

"I hate you," I glower at her, not even bothering to comment on that on general principle. As if my life wasn't complicated enough. Ron has been laughing uncontrollably for the past hour. He doesn't even care that he is also technically a girl—because he is peasant girl with about five lines, most of them in song. Him and Seamus are actually delighted at the idea of wearing bonnets. Meanwhile I am some sort of princess with at least five dozen lines.

I vow to find a way out of this stupid play.

Why me, anyway? There are plenty of fair witches in this castle; many of who would jump at the opportunity to flaunt themselves about on a stage. Lavender I know for sure is raving in envy every time she looks at me. I wonder if this was actually some sort of ploy I unknowingly walked into involving Lavender and Hermione using me as a proxy. I knew Hermione, as a prefect, had the opportunity to conspire with Professor Flitwick on the titular cast of the play; one of the four lovely ladies for each of the Houses.

I would like to reiterate my point: I am not a lovely lady. But Hermione obviously was not going to offer herself, and she sure as hell wasn't going to offer it to Lavender, or any of the other Gryffindor girls, so she offered it to me. Actually, no offering was involved. Flitwick jumped at the suggestion, as he had already enthusiastically went on to cast most of the men as women, and most of the women as men. Everyone seems quite on board with this—on a related note, everyone has lost their goddamn minds. Can no one but me see how greatly alarming this is?

Hermione laughs meanly. "Come now Harry, I think the stockings will look just lovely on you—a wig too, perhaps?"

I shove her away, as she and Ginny continue to cackle in their corner, conspiring new ways to embarrass me further.

"Oh come on, mate!" Ron calls to me in good cheer, as I stalk up to the Gryffindor boys room. Because I am a boy. "Everyone's doing it—'s just a bit of fun is all!"

"Bit of fun." I repeat, flatly. "This is your idea of fun? Ron, what are we going to do about Quidditch practice?" I point out, because this above all else should speak to Ron on the severity of it all.

Ron blinks, before exchanging excited looks with beaters Jimmy and Ritchie. "We should wear the dresses," he snickers. "Can you imagine what a hoot it'll be? Filch'll have a fit when he sees all the mud on them."

I am seriously appalled. And speechless. I decide my best bet is a hasty retreat.

Hermione follows me up the stairs though, nabbing me before I can make it into the safety of the dormitory. "Harry," she says, quiet and serious.

I gently shake her off, sighing. "Hermione," I scowl at her, but if comes off less angry and more exasperated.

"I'm sorry," she's quick to say, eyes big and wide. "I didn't mean to upset you—I just thought, well, everyone else seemed to be having a grand time of it… and when I suggested you—as a joke, I swear—the other prefects jumped on it and Professor Flitwick though it was an excellent idea; also honestly I do think you'll make a lovely lady—

"Hermione it's fine," I harrumph. "Really—

"And you've just—you've been so sad lately," Those doe eyes are doing terrible things to my heart, dammit. "And I thought that, I dunno, you'd get a laugh out of it too, maybe cheer you up a bit. I'm sorry if it's just making everything worse, we can always give the post to Lavender…

"And have her be the only one of the four fair ladies to actually be a girl?" I raise a brow. "And come on, are you seriously suggesting you didn't do this just to spite her?"

"Maybe a bit." Hermione agrees, shameless. Because Lavender had practically been frothing at the mouth at the idea of being the fair witch of Gryffindor—and the leading lady of this bizarre spectacle. And Hermione has been conspiring ways to sabotage her ever since she latched herself onto Ron like a carnivorous sarlaac intent on eating his brains, and this was the perfect opportunity. Hell, she might get them to break up just on the sheer enthusiasm Ron has on being a girl, and the sheer lack of enthusiasm Lavender has on Ron being a girl.

I mean, I suppose I do see the humor in it all. It surely has taken my mind off of graver things… like Voldemort. And Dumbledore. And whatever the hell Malfoy is up to. Hell, this might just be a blessing in disguise—with Malfoy one of the reluctant fair witches he might have less time to be snooping and getting himself into trouble at the behest of Voldemort. But this is to say nothing about Snape. Oh hell. Just thinking on it is giving me a headache, and I haven't even started on the subject of Quidditch! The team is in horrible shape, and I've already missed most of the year to whip them into some semblance of decency.

"I'm not mad," I say, truthfully. Slightly irked, maybe, but in the grand scheme of things this really isn't all that bad. "Use me as your vehicle of revenge if you must; but I draw the line at shiny red heels, you hear me?"

She fucking beams at me. "Pinky swear!"

.

.

.

Sixth year trudges on in a most tedious manner. Christmas comes and goes; it's the first Christmas I've spent with the Weasley's since I got roped into this mess. They are overjoyed to see me—as am I, of course. But I am also a little concerned. Voldemort let me go with little to no fanfare, leaving me wary and suspicious and… worried, I guess. It's not about fearing for my lives and others, it's far more… personal than that. We're in a rather confusing place right now. To the point I sort of wish we were back to our predictable but horrible relationship.

Wait, that's not true. Whatever we are is far better than what we were before. Far more difficult, but better.

Anyway the holidays pass without remark; Quidditch is steadily progressing; and the play is actually serving to amuse me more than irritate me. The good mood of all my classmates has sort of infected me as well. It's just light hearted fun, is all. Watching Ron attempt to dance and sing is perhaps the most entertaining thing I've seen all year. Seamus is far worse, but far more enthusiastic.

Unfortunately this just means I spend more time at school and less time with Voldemort, leaving us in this strange stasis that isn't getting any better or worse.

I suppose things were bound to come to a head eventually.

I'm not sure how I can tell I'm dreaming—it doesn't feel like a dream. It is far too lucid; it is still disorienting and hazy, but I have enough clarity to come to terms with the fact this isn't reality.

More to the point, that this isn't my dream, either.

And if it's not mine than it would stand to reason that it's his. We share the same soul, it wouldn't be that much of a stretch to assume we could share the same dream, too. And this definitely isn't my dream, first and foremost because I am staring down at myself and—huh. Is that really what I look like? I think he has a very skewed perception of me; I don't think I'm actually that hot.

You wouldn't be able to tell that though from the way he is devouring me with his eyes.

I look down at myself with no small amount of satisfaction. It doesn't seem like me; this rapturous creature that manages to elicit a desire so overwhelming that it almost scares me—him. Him. It scares him; this isn't me, I remind myself. These thoughts aren't my own. I am lost in them anyway. Regardless whoever this person is that I've become, he derives great pleasure from the sight of him; he is very addicting—more importantly, this boy is mine. My possessiveness alarms me, but this does not deter me from leaning down to sear a deep mark onto the milky skin just above his hip. He draws in a sudden, startled breath, and when I release him there is a darkened mark in the shape of my mouth; the only blemish to be found on an otherwise unmarred expanse of delectable skin.

I want to ruin him: there is a darkness prowling just beneath my fingers, waiting to tear him apart. It is such a gratifying sight—but one that has lost its value to me. I don't want to see him crushed and desolate, that lifeless gaze peering up at me, as if nothing exists behind it anymore. I don't want to break him, or at least, not like that.

No—I trail a hand down the length of his body, making a fine shiver in its wake. There are far better ways to ruin him.

And there is nothing quite as beautiful as Harry Potter when he begs, when he shudders apart with only the touch of my fingers, when I finally manage to break him. Perhaps most captivating are the tears; they inspire a fervor within me like no other, streaming down his face, full of pain. But a pain carved from, pleasure, frustration and desire.

I spread his legs, languid and slow, as if I have all the time in the world. He has taken his bottom lip between his teeth, bottling those delightful, needy little sounds he has been making. No matter—it is only a matter of time before I will have him screaming for me.

He looks up at me with an expression of tormented anguish. A very tempting sight, but not enough to speed up my torturously slow pace. I lower my fingers to his entrance; I know the moment he feels them, for he closes his eyes with a sharp inhale—a tiny noise escapes him when I spread them apart. It is, as always, an unfathomably tight fit. This incenses my desire as well as my concern; it is nearly impossible not to cause him pain, no matter how thorough I am at preparing him. I carefully probe deeper, just barely brushing against the bundle of nerves deep within him. He jolts in surprise; the movement dislodges his lip, his eyes snap open, and the sinful little noise that escapes him is almost enough to undo me. It doesn't quite, but it is enough to break my patience, and it's not long before I am fucking into him in earnest.

I look down upon the sight of him with great hunger; his eyes have fluttered shut again, and beneath them is a rising color; his mouth is ragged and thoroughly abused by my own, gasping for air; his pendant is hanging lopsided off his heaving chest, leaving nothing left but a lovely line of marks around his neck, strung like a collar.

"What do you want, Harry?" I breathe into his ear. His eyes open at that, glazed over, pupils blown with delirium. I keep my fingers in him, pressing lightly where I know he wants it most.

"I—I don't…" He swallows thickly. I press harder; his back arches, taught, and a choked moan escapes him. "Oh, oh—fuck… I don't know. I don't know—"

His standard answer. This doesn't deter me; he is on the edge of losing himself to pleasure, it will only take another little push… I still my hand then, spreading my fingers apart, stroking that spot inside him with increasing pressure until finally—

"More—please," he breathes, rapturous. And then, louder, "I want more."

An almost overwhelming tide of lust runs through me at that. It's so very hard to deny him anything when he begs so nicely. Even more so when he is erotically splayed out beneath me, easy and willing. A satisfaction swells within me when I gaze down at him, knowing that he is mine—and perhaps more importantly, knowing that he wants to be mine. For he has always been mine, ever since I laid my mark upon him as a child. And though it is far more difficult to get him to do anything of his own volition rather than just demanding it of him, it is always far more rewarding. There is nothing quite like it—nothing more corrupting than the taste of his sweet surrender; nothing so satisfying as watching him give in to his own pleasure—give in to me. It is utterly addicting: it is also impossible to give up.

He stirs uncomfortably beneath me, and I realize I have been staring, unmoving, for some amount of time, blinking out of my thoughts to once again fixate my full attention onto the boy in front of me. He watches me back, peering through his lashes, just a strip of brilliant green visible.

"What?" He demands, defensive and hesitant, a cheeks pinking after a long moment under my gaze. How he can still be embarrassed is beyond me, but it is an appetizing sight nonetheless.

I don't answer him, deciding it is high time to claim what's mine.

Whatever he's going to say dies a still death when he I line myself up to his entrance. A shiver runs through him when I press in slightly, just barely spreading him open. I breech him carefully, intent on causing him as little pain as possible, but it is not exactly an easy task; he is always so agonizingly, wondrously tight. I search all minute expressions that darts across his face, categorizing each and every one with thorough detail—there are so many of them, and they never stop eliciting my full fascination. The way he looks at me is not an expression I can understand, but I don't want it to leave nonetheless.

I am acutely aware of each and every emotion—even more so when they all disappear; his hands clench ineffectually at the sheets, and he lies very still beneath me, head tossed to the side, gaze resolutely fixated on something in the distance. It is a sight I have seen many times before, and one I am not fond of.

I frown, tilting his face towards me with an alarm I refuse to acknowledge. The concern is unwarranted; it is not an empty look that gazes back at me, a look as if the tenant has long since left, leaving nothing but a hollow vacancy—rather, something soft and uncertain. Diminutive, but no less significant.

He releases a shuddering breath when I am fully inside him, and as always, it is a struggle not to give in to my desire and pound him into the mattress, until he is screaming for me, begging for me, thinking only of me. That will come, if only I have the patience to wait for it. Regardless, it is a struggle; his inner passage flutters against me, clenching, as if begging me to spread him wider and fuck him ruthlessly. And he always makes for such an enticing sight, writhing beneath me, face screwed up in both pleasure and pain, looking so helpless as he tries to relax for me.

Small hands reach up to my face, turning my attention towards him once again. To my surprise, he pulls me down, gently but insistently, to catch my lips with his own. It is sweet and timorous; I am very unused to both. But not as much unused to it as I am with the feel of his soft kiss; unfamiliar, but pleasing nonetheless. He pulls away then, and a very strange feeling overcomes me. It is foreign and… not particularly pleasant. Actually, it sort of feels like a stomach ulcer.

I ignore it, far too engrossed in the sight before me. There is not a sight more alluring than his small, shy smile. A look that has been lost to me for far too long. Every time I see it a marked, urgent possessiveness spreads through me; I want to claim it somehow. I want it to be mine.

"You can move now," he whispers to me, and this is not an invitation I intend to pass up.

I pull out just as slowly as I had entered him. After a beat I thrust back into him; his breath hitches and his eyes flutter open, hands catching against me insistently.

"Um," he says in a tiny voice, wincing. "Actually, I take that back."

I am not sure why I find this particularly endearing, but I indulge him and halt my movement—not an easy task.

There are so many emotions flittering across his face, ever changing, each more enticing than the last. It is impossible to catch each and every one, but that is irrelevant. All that matters it that each and every one of them are mine—they are all, entirely, for me. This above everything else—his sweet surrender, his body splayed beneath me, his little moans and gasps and whimpers—elicits a distinct triumph and satisfaction within me.

The immobility gets progressively more difficult; his brow furrows as he pants very softly, fingers sporadically gripping my arms. His inner passage clings to me, so warm and tight it is getting impossible to stay still. He shifts then and tightens around me, writhing ineffectually on my cock.

I breathe in sharply; it takes considerable effort not to move.

"Tell me how it feels," I demand of him, because I want to hear it in his own words.

He smiles, dry. "It hurts." He deadpans, as if that should be the obvious conclusion. But then he shakes his head, smile growing into something genuine. "But it's good," he says.

And then, quieter: "Thank you."

I look down upon him curiously. "For what?"

He buries his head against my shoulder. "For waiting."

And then he seems to just—relax, all at once, closing his eyes and rolling his hips to take me in even deeper, body opening up for me so deliciously. I have made him submit to me before, but never like this. I want to claim him; brutally and savagely, so that he never forgets who he belongs to.

"Okay," he says, laying back, sprawled against the bed sheets. Like an invitation. He peers up at me through his lashes, gaze searing hot. "You can fuck me now."

That is definitely an invitation. I withdraw slowly, surging back in just as slow. He aches his back into it, making an unintelligible noise of pleasure.

"Do you like that, Harry?" I puncture this with an aggressive thrust that he is not prepared for. A little gasp escapes him as I start a slow surge into him, and he has to grip the sheets to brace himself.

"I—" His breath comes out sharply. "I, um…"

"Do you?" I murmur against his neck, drawing my lips upwards. I enjoy speaking the serpent tongue to him; the shiver it never fails to elicit.

"Yeah I do," he breathes, leaning up to press his mouth to my own. I reward him with a particularly deep thrust, beginning to fuck him in earnest.

"Oh, oh—oh," he throws his head back, bearing his smooth, perfect neck, and the collar of bite marks surrounding it. A low moan escapes him when I thrust into him deeply, impaling him onto my cock and making him feel every inch of it. He squirms a bit, releasing a whimper as he struggles to take it all in, and I grab his hips fiercely to stop him from getting away.

Finally he lies there submissively, his deliciously tight hole clenching around me impotently. I hold him in place and slowly lower him until he is fully seated on my cock, he makes a mewl of distress, writhing ineffectually.

"Tom, I can't take anymore," he paws weakly at me, panting. "Tom, oh, oh, please—

I brush my lips against his damp forehead, before moving to the shell of his ear, "Just a little more, Harry." I tell him, darkly, intently watching as I sink even deeper into him.

He whines, clutching at my arms and squeezing around me like a vice. I place reassuring kisses over his brow, smoothing his hair back as he releases a long, shaky breath. His expression of both pain and pleasure is exquisite: so sweet and yielding. I actually lament the fact that I never truly took the time to savor every moment of this. It is so pleasing to watch him take in my entire length, in slow and excruciating detail. I never gave him any time to adjust before, and the sight has proven to me more rewarding than almost everything else I've made him do thus far. I don't know if it's because the idea of him giving in to me so fully is so alluring, or that the sight of it is so alluring. At any rate, though there is nothing that I would like more than to watch him struggle to fuck himself on my length the entire night long, if I let him I'll lose the opportunity to do what I really want to do.

I pull out then, slow but unrelenting, never once stopping to let him adjust before pushing back into him, just as slow. Soon enough he is arching his back, rocking into each thrust and breathlessly moaning for more. It is always so difficult to deny him when he begs so nicely.

"Yes, Harry?" I purr into his ear, surging back into him. "You wanted something?"

"Yes…" He draws in a breath, eyes squeezing shut as I thrust in to the hilt. "Yes, please…"

"Please what?"

But he does not answer, clenching at the sheets.

"What do you want, Harry?"

Finally he looks up at me with big, glassy eyes, panting softly. "I'd like it harder, please."

It's probably not even intentional, but the sweetness of it sears through me, and then I am pulling out and tossing him face first into the sheets, pulling his hips up and surging back into him with a force that almost throws him into the bedpost. He cries out in pleasure, before he ducks his head in against his arm, muffling himself. I watch him with amusement. He can hide all he likes for now; he will be screaming for me soon enough.

.

.

I wake up with a sharp intake of breath, eyes flying open. I'm choking for air like I just sprinted down the Quidditch pitch. And, for the first time in maybe years, I actually remembered what I dreamed about. Remembered—and clearly gotten off on it. I look down to where I am wet and sticky, waving my wand to clean it with a shrug. Whatever. Some people might be embarrassed about getting off on a wet dream: there's nothing better than getting off without putting forth any effort for it, I say.

Still this doesn't disregard the fact that I was having a dream that may or may not have been my own. It didn't seem like mine; I certainly don't have the imagination to make up something like that, for one. But on the other hand, I've never shared a dream with him before. Maybe he just didn't raise his occlumency barriers? It's not as if I have any, so it couldn't have been me.

I turn accusingly to the man in question, still fast asleep beside me. I'm a bit envious; why does he get to continue the fantasy but I get woken up? Well, whatever. At least I got off on it.

Got off on it pretty well, at that. I feel boneless and incapable of moving right now, flopping back onto the bed sheets and worming around until I'm comfortable again. But the idea of sitting here lounging about as Lord Voldemort lays beside me having all sorts of sexy dreams about me is making me mildly uncomfortable. What is he dreaming of now? Something kinky, undoubtedly. Maybe he has me tied up with snakes, blindfolded. Or maybe its chains? Maybe he's reliving our first two years together. That thought makes me grow cold and uncomfortable.

I close my eyes, remembering the feeling of it. I had the intense urge to—well, bang my dream-self into the mattress, but there was also an underlying affection and even maybe genuine concern for me. It almost seemed as if he didn't want to hurt me. But that, I find rather hard to believe.

I leap out of the bed, deciding to beat a hasty retreat before Voldemort even wakes up. I have an excuse, too. Not only do I have Quidditch practice today, but we're also doing our first full-length rehearsal for the play, and Ron has triple-dared me to wear the dreaded shiny red heels. Seamus promised if I could dance a whole minuet in them he'd turn himself into a monkey for a month. I intend to make good on that promise.

At any rate I'm silently thankful for Hermione and her seriously vindictive ways, because thinking of all the lines I have to remember means I'm not thinking about that totally crazy, totally invasive (totally hot) sex dream I shared with Voldemort. It's hard to think about Voldemort, actually, when I'm dressed in a corset and toulle skirt that definitely wasn't that short yesterday, and stockings that refuse to stay on my thighs.

"You look like a pedophile's wet dream." Ron sniggers, losing his shit the moment he sees me.

"You did this, didn't you," I accuse him, pointing to the skirt that used to be floor length, and now is barely mid thigh. "Fix it."

He throws his hands up in the air. "Wasn't me!" He swears.

"It looks good, Harry!" Dean enthuses, good-naturedly.

"Yeah," Seamus agrees. "At this rate, you might even look better than Malfoy."

I don't quite know whether to take that as a compliment or not. I cast a wary glance towards the Death Eater in question, who is wearing an equally tight torture device wrapped up in ribbon and a bonnet. "At least I don't have to wear that damned bonnet."

"I like the bonnets." Seamus gasps.

"They look like a giant bird laid poorly colored pancakes all over your heads." I shoot back, crossing my arms.

"You all are taking this way too seriously." I hear a sardonic voice come up from behind me, and then slim, feminine hands are leaning down to tug the hem of my socks higher up on my legs. It would be rather scandalous if it wasn't Hermione.

"Am I wearing these right?" I turn to her in greeting. "They keep falling down."

"Use a shrinking spell." She advises, looking up the striped stockings reproachfully. "I don't really think green is the right color for you. Shouldn't we be putting this on Malfoy?"

"Don't give Malfoy the sexy witch costume!" Ron protests. "He doesn't deserve it!"

"Yeah, at least not Malfoy! At the very least, Corner will wear it with more aplomb than Malfoy." Are Neville's sage words of advice.

Hermione rolls her eyes. "Sexy witch outfit… what is this, Halloween?" No one gets the joke but me, and I snicker in silent laughter. Halloween is a respected event here in the Wizarding World, but back in the muggle world it's just an elaborate excuse for everyone to dress up like a slut. "And why is this skirt so short?"

"No idea." I answer truthfully. "I was hoping you could help me with that."

Hermione makes a noncommittal noise. "I'm no seamstress—I suppose we could get Filch to take a look at it."

"Filch is a seamstress?" I hear Seamus guffaw from behind me.

"Alright, take it off." She commands, imperiously. "I'll talk to the Hufflepuff boys running wardrobe to see if they have something else for you to wear for now."

"Or I could just wear my uniform?" I call to her hopefully as she walks out of the Great Hall, but to no luck.

By the time everyone has finished breakfast and we're starting the rehearsals for real Hermione has unearthed some ancient, apparently priceless artifact from a few centuries ago that is even worse than my current one.

"Nevermind," I say quickly, giving it the evil eye. "I'll stick with this one. Don't worry about the skirt."

She gives me a nonplussed look. "You're really going to walk around in that?"

"Better than looking like the Iron Maiden." I shudder, grabbing the hideous thing and shoving it back onto the rack of outfits. Some of them are really quite hideous: all of them are actually real dresses from the medieval times. I feel like actual costumes would be far more amenable and comfortable.

"Harry?" I hear a voice call out to me. It's one of the little Ravenclaw first years, put in charge of logistics. He looks far too excited to be here. "Harry Potter? We need Lady Olga at the front please."

"Oh, Dammit." I hike the stockings up even higher, toeing out of my sneakers to look for the actual shoes. I don't see them. "Um, Hermione, have you seen my shoes?"

Her eyes go wide. "Oh Harry," she bemoans, "Please don't tell me you lost them! That's a priceless artifact!"

"I don't think I lost it," I assure her, pathetically. "And why are we using real outfits anyway? This wouldn't be such an issue if we just used normal shoes!"

"Because it's the Hogwarts play, Harry, it's tradition! Some of these dresses were supposedly made by Helga Hufflepuff herself!" Hermione looks as if I just told her the apocalypse was tomorrow. "Harry, those shoes belonged to Helena Ravenclaw—and you lost them."

"They were ugly anyway." I protest, feebly.

She gives me a particularly aggrieved look.

"Okay, okay. Look, they're not lost. I think I know where they are."

"You do?"

"I think so." I hope so, I wisely do not say.

.

.

I don't actually know where they are, but I'm taking an educated guess. I keep most of my stuff in a rucksack that houses all my books, ill-kept and unwashed clothes, an assortment of socks and occasionally Quidditch gear and, hopefully, those stupid shoes. Hermione told everyone I was having bowel movement issues (thanks, Hermione) and to use the understudy while I was indisposed, so I have at least an hour or two before people start questioning the severity of my illness. At any rate I take the necklace portkey out from underneath the collar of the dress, praying silently that Voldemort is still asleep.

Fat chance of that, the man is an early riser. Fortunately he is awake but does not appear to be in his rooms, because I land in an open, empty study with no one to be seen.

I give a mental cheer, before looking around. "Okay, okay—let's see… sparkly shoes, where could you be? You've got to be around here somewhere…"

Well, there's the spot where I normally put my backpack. I narrow my eyes, dropping to the floor to squint down into the small black hole that exists beneath the couch. I do not find the shoes, but I do find my lost quill, three packets of ice mice, a chocolate frog, practically all the pairs of socks I've ever owned and my Astronomy textbook. Damn, I have been looking for that thing everywhere.

"Looking for something?"

My eyes widen, and I bolt upright, cursing liberally when I hit my head on the bottom of the end table.

My face flushes and I immediately pull my skirt down, turning back to see that yes, indeed, that is Voldemort. And my shoes, dangling from his fingers.

"Um," I squeak quickly, panicking, "Uh—I can explain."

He raises a brow. I think he might even look a bit amused. His gaze trails down to my outfit—okay, that is definitely amusement. To be honest, the thing hasn't really bothered me in a while now, considering it's practically in vogue with all the Hogwarts boys. No one bats an eyelash because everyone's in some ridiculous frilly get-up: no one is cross-dressing in Malfoy Manor though, and my embarrassment returns tenfold.

"Can you?" He practically purrs. "I'm quite interested in hearing this explanation."

Oh god. I should have taken Hermione up on that hideous pink monstrosity—at least that one would cover me up… this one leaves nothing to the imagination. I don't even think I can talk I'm so horrified; what the hell is he going to think? He probably thinks I've gone crazy. I can't think up any explanation that doesn't sound absolutely absurd; yeah, the whole school is cross-dressing so I figured I'd hop on the band wagon. Actually, I decide the truth isn't all that bad and just go for it.

"There's a play going on at Hogwarts…" I begin slowly, feeling like I might internally combust from all the heat rushing to my face. "And uh, well, I'm in it…"

"This does not at all explain why you're wearing that—" He pauses. "What is that?"

"Supposedly a Hogwarts antique," I reply, feebly.

Voldemort smirks—it is slow, dangerous, and makes my stomach flip over. "It suits you."

I think I'm insulted. It's one thing for Hermione to tease me over it, but a whole other for the dark lord to. Except… I don't think he means it in a malicious way. At least, I hope he doesn't. This is embarrassing enough as it is—the last thing I want is have to suffer through a half hour of him totally berating me.

"Oh. Well… thanks." Because what the hell else am I supposed to say.

He gestures then to the couch, I throw it a look, before hesitantly moving over to it. I sink down slowly, cautiously, keeping a wary eye on him, in case he decides to do something. I don't know the look in his eye, and there's nothing worse than an unpredictable Voldemort. You never know when he's in the mood to be a sick fuck.

Except, to my unending disbelief, he sinks to the ground in front of me. I'm so surprised I don't know what to do.

Then he carefully grabs one of my legs, running a hand up and down the fabric before returning to the sneakers I'm wearing. With more care than I thought possible he unties my laces, slipping the shoe off my foot in a weirdly torturous manner. I'm not sure how I managed to get more red, but I must be approaching a tomato at this point; I don't know what it is about this that has me so flustered. It's just a foot, honestly. The first time I put these shoes on I had to get Lavender Brown of all people to show me how. Academically I don't see how this is all that different.

But maybe it's because this is the dark lord in front of me, kneeling down, slipping my foot into the shoe in a way that is so fucking sexual—how is he even doing that?—his eyes practically eating me alive.

I find it very hard to breathe, suddenly. Without all the ridiculousness of the play to distract me my thoughts dive right back into the dream I had, the sheer heat of it, how he had that same look in his eyes then as he does now. Is he thinking the same things? God, I can only imagine. I close my eyes shut tightly: I don't want to imagine.

"Harry," he demands my attention once more; I don't need to open my eyes to feel his hands trace up my legs, sneaking up under all that fabric to skim up my thigh…

My eyes snap open then, and I unintentionally hold his gaze as he slides the other sneaker off, wanting to look away but feeling as if it is impossible to find my way out of those burning red eyes.

This should not be this hot. Belatedly I spare an amused moment to wonder if Voldemort has a foot fetish—wouldn't that be hilarious—before my mouth runs dry as he slips on the other shoe, releasing my leg to stand up to his imposing full height, towering over me. There's a brief moment where neither of us move; we're just staring at each other, and I'm pretty sure we're both thinking of that dream.

And then like lightning he's pulling me up to my feet and dominating my mouth in a bruising kiss. I feel lightheaded, and I'm not sure if I stood up too fast or if it's really just his tongue doing funny things to my head. For the first time in my life there is not a small spark of trepidation when I feel his lips against my own, his hands wandering up under my skirt, playing with the hem of my socks. Actually, I leap at him, literally, wrapping my legs around him and enjoying the startled look of surprise when he staggers backward to balance the both of us. The surprise is short lived, and then he's nipping at my bottom lip, not even asking for entrance, just plundering my mouth like he already owns it.

I groan at the thought, getting hot at the idea of it. He deposits me onto some kind of surface—things go clattering to the floor, so I'm going to assume it's the desk. He doesn't even break the kiss, waving his wand to divest me of my clothes.

Except… my clothes don't come off.

He notices it too, pulling away with an incredulous look. He waves his wand again. Nothing.

I'm gasping for breath, equally as surprised before it comes to me why they're not budging. "Hogwarts artifacts," I pant, catching my breath. I guess Hermione wasn't joking when she said they were priceless magical artifacts. Only something very old or very powerful can withstand charms and spells.

I see that glint in his eye. "You can't rip it!" I blurt out. "It's priceless!"

Voldemort makes a disgruntled noise, moving to start on the truly absurd amount of ribbon that's holding this thing together. There's about ten seconds of him looking down at the contraption as if it's the most difficult, complex spell he's ever seen, before ultimately he grows impatient enough to just try to slip it over my head. That works about as well as the rest of his attempts, and eventually he gets so annoyed with it he just pulls me off the desk, spins me around and bends me over. Problem solved.

What an ingenious idea, I think dazedly, amused. This probably should have been the obvious conclusion, but I will forgive the both of us because neither of us is thinking straight right now.

Suddenly my eyes snap open, just as he grabs my hips. Oh no. Oh shit, he can't pull my skirt up, he's going to see—

He flips the skirt up, and I make the stupid choice to look back at him miserably to see his expression. It is nothing short of gleeful.

He loops a finger around the edge of the panties, pulling back to watch it snap back against my butt. His expression says it all: I scowl back at him, attempting menacing and missing by a mile. I turn around, burying my face in my hands, wishing this desk would swallow me up so I can die here. If not through suffocation than by sheer embarrassment. "Oh, fuck off." I tell him, because I can only imagine what kind of remark he's going to have for this. In my defense, what else was I supposed to do? I can't exactly where boxers underneath this, and there's no way in hell I'd go without any underwear at all.

"Now Harry, that's not very nice." Fuck him, and the stupid smirk I can practically hear in every one of his words. "I think I rather like them."

"Stop making fun of me!" That too was supposed to sound menacing, but comes out more like a plaintive whine.

"Making fun of you? But Harry, I'm being serious…" He pulls the many layers of skirt up, so he can get a better look. "I like them a lot—I might just have to make you wear these more often."

I blink at that, surprised. "You do?" I ask, skeptically.

He laughs quietly at that; and dammit, why is it that I feel like I could take all this embarrassment and more if only to make him laugh like that? Still, I can't help but feel happy that I can make him laugh—genuinely, warmly—even if it's at my expense.

"Oh, Harry…" That smirk might just be a smile now. "It's as if you tempt me on purpose."

I flush again. "T—This one wasn't my fault!" I insist, hotly. I didn't intend to be a part of this play, or the lead role at that.

"And yet the event has fallen into my lap nonetheless," he remarks, darkly. "And how could I pass on such a wonderful opportunity?"

How did this go from mortifying and embarrassing to such a turn on? His voice alone is arousing.

"What do you think, Harry?" His tone is seriously distracting; melting like butter and making raw heat crawl up my chest—but doesn't quite distract me from the fact that he's actually asking. The heat disappears for a moment, replaced by something soft and far more dangerous. He asked.

That in and of itself is enough to seal the deal. "I think that's a great idea." I whisper, looking back at him.

He peels the panties off very slowly, tugging gently with both hands until it slips over my butt; he doesn't take them off all the way though, simply lowering them enough to expose me. My head thumps against the desk—fuck, why is that so hot.

He works one finger into me so slowly I have to wonder if he wants me to beg. If so, he might just get what he wants at this point. I moan in approval, in case my approval wasn't obvious enough, straining upwards to make it slide in just a bit further. He lays his other hand over the small of my back, pinning me down. Fuck, why is that also hot? I can't do anything but lie here and take it.

"Do you like that, Harry?"

Is this a rhetorical fucking question? Yes, goddammit, what does it look like? "Yeah…" I reply, too breathless to voice my severe irritation at his lack of progress on the finger fucking thing.

"Do you want more?"

"Yes," I groan, straining as I feel the tip of a second finger just barely inside of me.

He thrusts them both in sharply, making my back snap taut in surprise, a strangled noise coming out of me. I squirm around them; they're so deep, but they're not moving. "Beg me," He purrs.

"Goddammit," I swear—probably not the best way to start this. Damn, I used to be so good at this… "W—What do you want me to say?" I'm so aroused it's getting hard to breathe, let alone think straight. This has never happened to me before.

"Well I don't know Harry, why don't you tell me?" He is totally getting off on this. Unfortunately so am I. "How are you going to convince me?"

"Oh, fuck, Tom, I don't know what you want me to say…" I try to move on his fingers, but his grip tightens. I make a very unhappy whimper at that. "Tom, please… come on…"

He seems somewhat appeased, making a noise of approval, but he doesn't move his fingers. This is way too difficult, what is he expecting right now? I mean he can't hold on forever right? Because I don't think I'm going to come up with anything that could sway him… my eyes widen. Or maybe I don't have to come up with it: maybe I already have.

I turn around, attempting by best please-fuck-me look. "I'd like it harder, please."

That is more than enough to break his patience. I'd be more triumphant about this but he crushes me down even more, fucking me hard, just like I asked.

His other hand tightens against my thigh, so hard I think he might be leaving bruises. Then without warning he hooks a finger underneath the seam of one sock, stretching it far enough for it to snap back against my thigh with a stinging slap. I make an aborted groan at that—just another reminder of what this all must look like, what I must look like. What had Ron said earlier, a pedophile's wet dream? Oh, if only he knew…

He gets up to three before I start feeling like I'm about to lose my mind. He's always so good at this, stretching me in all the right ways, knowing just where to press his fingers… my desire is short lived, as he withdraws them all slowly. I know what's coming next, and its like a bucket of ice was poured over me. The white hot lust recedes, leaving nothing but a cold, anticipatory fear. He nudges my legs apart, spreading me wide open to press lightly against my entrance.

There's the murmur of a lube charm; my chest is pounding, heart beating a tattoo against my ribs. He leans over me—I can feel his warm breath against my neck, the reassuring kiss he places on the sensitive skin there. My eyes flutter shut. It is so small and insignificant a thing, but it relaxes me nonetheless.

He surges in with one long, excruciating thrust; not hurried, but certainly not slow. I'm not sure if it's better this way, all at once, or if I'd prefer him to go slowly, inch by inch. I don't know. Something tells me he'd still feel far too big for me either way. At any rate I'm relieved to find that he doesn't seem to be in a particular hurry to move; it's easier to get used to the full girth of him when he's completely inside me and staying still. It's easier, but that doesn't mean it's easy. I still feel like his cock is far too big to ever quite get used to.

He gives me what feels like hours to adjust, but it's still not enough. I stifle a whimper of pain when he pulls out, and have to bite my lip hard enough to draw blood when he thrusts back in. When he's completely sheathed he holds himself there, grabbing one of my legs and propping it on the table. I hear a rip when he bends my leg, which means he totally ripped my only pair of panties. Dammit, I needed those things. I don't have time to mourn their loss, because this new position stretches me far wider, and suddenly he doesn't feel like he'll split me in two. I have to sit up some to balance on the leg underneath me, and my toes barely touch the ground; he begins to pound into me in earnest, and I have to hang on for dear life in fear of falling over.

The reason for the change in position becomes clear when he squeezes my thigh in a bruising grip, before running his hand up and down my leg.

"These socks," he groans, surprising me, "These fucking socks…"

For a moment, I'm too stunned to form an opinion on this. Then my shoulders shake in silent laughter—so it's the socks that really get to him, huh? My humor doesn't last for long, because then he's ramming back into me, and in this position it's enough to stir up my latent desire. He hits my prostate every time, and it's not long before I'm snaking a hand underneath my skirt and grabbing my definitely interested arousal. He pushes the breath out of me on every stroke; I feel like I'm about to burst, so close to the edge that I can't do anything but mindlessly moan for more.

To my distinct displeasure he stops abruptly, just when I was so fucking close. I almost feeling like cursing him out for this. But then he is releasing my leg, pulling out and maneuvering me onto my back.

I look up at him with wide eyes, too turned on to be amused as he runs his hands up and down my legs, before throwing them over his shoulders. Then he plunges right back in with one long, smooth thrust; my back arches, all the breath leaving me. He pushes my knees to my chest, and it's almost too much—he feels impossibly large like this, like he's going to break me if he tries to move. Fortunately he doesn't—he is too enamored with his socks. I throw an arm over my face to hide my smile as I watch him gaze intently upon them, bringing a reverent hand to draw up the inseam. What is it about them that has him so fascinated? I guess I can't blame him; who can resist their fuzzy, striped allure?

My utter humiliation and embarrassment at wearing this ridiculous outfit has turned into a searing lust, in no small part because it's clear Voldemort is getting off on this—getting off, and getting totally obsessed. I have the feeling I'll be seeing many different costumes in my near future.

It does not take long at all for both of us to finish, something about this whole encounter so overwhelming it seems impossible not to. Even in this position he nails my prostate every time, the pleasure sharper than the sting of pain that accompanies every thrust. I wish I could say that it was his cock that pulled me over the edge, but really it was the look in his eyes as he gazed down at me that pushed me into oblivion. He was not all that far behind, fucking me through my orgasm, until I was so sensitive I didn't think I could take anymore of it. He comes with a long groan, so deep in me I actually wince in pain.

After a moment he moves to pull out, and my eyes snap open, grabbing him with a force that surprises him before he can move too far. "Don't pull out." I tell him, breathlessly.

He raises a surprised brow.

I blush furiously. "I—I mean… I, uh, can't get this dress dirty." And that's exactly what's going to happen if he pulls out. I can only imagine Hermione's face when I come back with cum stains all over this thing.

"You care that much about it?" He seems to be genuinely asking.

"It's priceless!" I remind him. "I can't get it ruined." Hermione will kill me, I add silently.

He makes a noncommittal noise, tugging the fabric out from underneath me. When he holds most of it in his hands, he carefully pulls out. Even this slow it stings a bit, and when he pulls out completely I feel strangely empty with the loss.

I wind my hands through his hair, catching my breath. Even through all the layers of clothing I can feel his heartbeat, just as erratic as my own. For some reason that's really reassuring. He moves away from me then, pulling me up with him.

I stand upright, feeling very sticky and uncomfortable. When I rub my thighs together their slick with come. Voldemort eyes me up, before he waves his wand and cleans me, much to my surprise. I know very well how much he enjoys the sight of his come dripping out of me. My relief comes too soon though, for he waves his wand again and conjures up a pair of panties.

I scowl darkly at him.

At least my other pair was plain cotton and totally unremarkable; this one has lace and a pink bow and some sort of checkered pattern. I raise a brow, amused by Voldemort's choice in underwear. My amusement lasts until he walks over to me, kneeling before me once again. My eyes grow wide with first surprise, and then embarrassment when it becomes clear he wants me to step into them.

I am still scowling deeply as he pulls them up my legs, but I am also flushed as red as a tomato, so I once again do not look nearly as intimidating as I intended. This too is far too hot for real life. It could have seemed like an innocent gesture, if he wasn't totally feeling me up in the process.

When he's slipped them on and adjusted them to his standards, he also takes the time to straighten out my skirt. The undue attention is doing crazy things to me. When he's finished he stands up to his full height, and it's then I realize how close we're standing; close enough to breathe him in, lean against his chest. He noses into my hair, breathing deeply, his arms around me.

"And what is the point in this thing?" His hands have found the ridiculous bow in my hair, fiddling with the silk.

"I don't know," I reply hotly, wishing the ground would swallow me up whole. "I didn't exactly dress myself."

"Yes, I suppose that was obvious." He agrees, amused. I believe he is attempting to fix the thing, much to my annoyance. Whatever, if it's crooked it's his fault anyway. "What are you supposed to be, exactly?"

"A princess." I grouse, hiding my blush into his shoulder. He laughs, much to my surprise, and I have to hide my smile in the fabric of his robes when I realize I've once again managed to make him laugh.

He gently pulls me from my hiding place, tilting my head to capture my lips with his own.

I'm not sure how long we stand like that, but finally he pushes me away gently, holding me at arms length. "Go back to your play, Harry," he tells me, eyes dark and heady. "Before I forget myself once again."

A part of me wants him to. Then there's the rest of me who thinks that a hasty retreat is an excellent idea. I nod quickly, fixing a flustered gaze to the floor while I fish out my pendant, quite studiously not meeting his eyes as I portkey away.

.

.

.

I return to Hermione with the shoes, tactfully leaving out the fact that I've defiled yet another Hogwarts historical artifact. No one will ever have to know just what happened to this dress—who knows, maybe next year some unsuspecting lad will have to wear it. I snicker quietly at the thought.

I'm off to Quidditch practice with a bounce in my steps. I finagle a pepper-up potion from Madam Pomfrey for my 'bowel movement issues', because otherwise I wouldn't be able to have a bounce in my steps at all, let alone be able to sit down on a broom. The Gryffindor team is coming along excellently; I can't wait to trash the Hufflepuffs next week.

I'm still in a good mood all the way through the day, until it is time to retire for the evening. All my friends are heading up to the common room to play exploding snap, but I beg off, inciting once again my elusive 'training'. No one calls me out on it, though I do see Hermione spare me a worried glance. I disappear down a hallway, looking around before I activate my portkey.

The Dark Lord is reading in bed, doing that thing where he looks hilariously old and domestic. I'm sure whatever it is that holds his attention is certainly not some light evening reading; more than likely it's something to do with the war. Scrolls are scattered about him, and he looks to be concentrating deeply.

I shift my weight nervously. "Hi," I say, lamely, drawing his attention away from his work.

"Harry," he intones, and there is perhaps something soft to his tone. Other than that he makes no acknowledgment of me, deeply engrossed in his work.

I look around, not knowing what to do. I can't tell if he wants me to leave him alone or not… well, I suppose if he did he'd make no qualms in telling me right? I shake my head, moving to shrug off my outer robes and fold them on a nearby settee. I toe off my shoes, moving to unbutton my shirt. I chance a glance up at him; he appears to be enjoying the show—at the very least, he is watching intently. There is still a bit of apprehension at this, but it is overtaken by the little thrill that runs through me when I realize I've got all his attention, and not even the war would keep him from watching. Finally the shirt falls open, and I pull the tie loose as well. The rest of the strip tease is significantly less interesting, and when I crawl into bed with him I'm surprised he doesn't immediately pin me to the mattress.

Actually, he doesn't do anything. He spares me an amused look, before he returns to his work.

I almost want to ask him what it is he's working on, before I think better of it. The war isn't my concern, what do I care?

With this thought, I cocoon myself in his sheets, snuggling happily with his pillow. Whatever. I've done more than enough for this stupid war. Let other people handle it.

I should have known that it doesn't really work like that.

.

.

.

It's weird to think the play is over. I feel like it was only just yesterday Flitwick was joyfully calling my name for one of the lead roles; some whispered in surprise, others laughed. They laughed a lot harder when Malfoy was called up soon thereafter.

I actually ended up greatly enjoying myself. It was just so… so bad. In no small part because all the boys were girls and all the girls were boys; I have to admit, no matter how many people tell me I look great in a flouncy dress, I would make a hideously bad girl. I'm far too gangly and awkward for one, and I walk like a duck in these shoes. At any rate, Neville surprised us all with his two-octave voice, and Seamus did actually manage to dance a minuet for five minutes in those shiny red heels. It was with great sadness that I returned my dress; it grew on me, really. I named it Yolanda. I had good memories with Yolanda, it'll be sad to put her back in storage until the next time Flitwick is feeling whimsical.

Hermione points out that it's ridiculous to be so disheartened about a piece of clothing. I agree with her. All the same I miss it—maybe not the dress, but what it meant in the abstract. All of a sudden finals are upon us, Quidditch is getting harder, and life is stressful once again. That play felt like a brief reprieve from everything, but the world and all its problems had never really left, they had just been swept to the corners for that moment. It's not the dress so much as the curious, untroubled spirit it had given me. For Ron though, I really think it was the bonnet.

I've seen Voldemort only once since we defiled our second Hogwarts historical artifact.

I'm not even sure if it counts; I spent most of the afternoon lounging on a sofa in his study, ostensibly doing homework but really just waiting for him to come home. I ended up falling asleep long before that. I wake up the following morning with another blanket over me, which means he came home at some point, and had spared me enough thought to conjure a blanket for me. Still, that's a moving gesture from him.

It's strange to think I actually want to see him. It has been the exact opposite for the entirety of my life. And just when I want to see him he's not around.

Sometimes in the night I'll feel him over me; lost in dreams but lucid enough to make out his form in the darkness, the tender hand brushing over my forehead.

I don't think he's avoiding me on purpose. I think he's just busy. This isn't the first time that's happened—I remember long stretches during the summer where he was sometimes gone for days. The difference was that I rejoiced those moments of solitude. Now they just make me feel listless and concerned. Because if he's not here with me, he's out there doing… something. Who knows what. Not slaughtering the muggle masses, but probably something equally as horrible.

It's a sobering thought. There is more to him than what I see. This about face of his is a new development; I fear it is only a matter of time before he reverts back to the terrifying, evil man he used to be.

Just a week ago everything seemed fine. Weird, but fine. Voldemort was around all the time, and even seemed to be in good spirits for the majority of it. If there were problems in the outside world, he made no show of them. Just a week ago we were having sex over his desk, sleeping in bed together, having discussions on feelings.

It all feels so far away now.

.

.

.

I fear something very bad is going on. Voldemort has been strange lately—distant, but then he always is to some degree. But he is so rarely at home, to the point that I've given up going over there because he's never around anyway. He hasn't summoned me: the only times I see him are when I portkey to his manor on the off chance of seeing him and he is actually home. Even then he is quick to return to whatever it is that holds his attention so completely.

There are a lot of things that hold his attention, but I don't think it's all that narcissistic of me to say that there are very few things that hold his attention like I do. So whatever it is must be important to him indeed.

I can think of one possibility off the top of my head.

"Do you think Dumbledore's been gone a lot recently?" Ever since that one time someone tried to kill him with poisoned wine but accidentally ended up making Ron break up with his girlfriend—ahem, Malfoy, ahem—he's been traveling a lot these days.

"Has he?" Ron looks up, not looking particularly interested. "Maybe."

Hermione rolls her eyes—as if she could possibly still be surprised that Ron finds his shepherd's pie more interesting than the current state of affairs. I wish I could be just as distracted as Ron, but unfortunately there are no bonnets, singing toads or sparkly heels to distract me now. The play is over. It was more fun that I had expected it to be while it lasted, but now I have nothing to distract my thoughts from Voldemort, the war, and the correlations between the two. Not even Quidditch manages to fully grasp my attention.

Her eyes fixate on me, probing. "Do you know why?"

I shrug inelegantly.

"It's the war, isn't it."

"I'm assuming," I sigh at length. "I don't really know what else it could be."

Her brows furrow. "You don't know what he's doing?"

"Not at all." I answer honestly. Nor do I care.

"But you…" She trails off, confused. "I thought you said you were spending all this time training with him."

Uh—oh shit. Did I say that? I can never keep my lies straight. And with a person like Hermione it's almost downright impossible anyway. I freeze up, only condemning myself further when her eyes narrow at me. "Aren't you, Harry?" She presses, scrutinizing me.

"Well, um, yeah. But y'know, we don't really talk about… that kind of stuff…"

"Then what on earth do you talk about?"

I'm so fortunate Ron is eating, otherwise he might actually have been listening in. As it is Ron is incapable of eating and listening at the same time, so I'm in the clear. "Can we talk about this later?" I plead with her, quietly. Hopefully she sees something imploring in my eyes, because she nods.

Later is after classes, when we have snuck our way into the deep recesses of the library, far removed from our peers. I look up: the history section, but of course. What other section would be so thoroughly unused? I wait here as she goes about collecting books from other sections that actually have relevance, and busy myself by hopping up onto the counter and splitting the spine of some book about the history of centaur hooves as potion ingredients. Ew. I have no idea what to tell her, and I've been thinking on a plausible lie all day. In the end, I have nothing but the truth, and who the hell knows how that will turn out.

Rather well, actually.

Her eyebrows are doing some crazy dance as she covers her mouth with her hand. I've just spilt my deepest, darkest secret to her—okay not really, but it's the principle of the thing—and this is her reaction? I expected a bit of anger, honestly. I wonder if this whole contract thing counts as betrayal.

Hermione takes a deep breath, looking around as if her impeccable anti-spying and muffling charms could have possibly gone out in the interim.

"Okay," she starts, taking a deep breath. Meanwhile, I'm holding my breath about to turn blue in the face with anxiety. "Firstly—this whole thing is so wrong and unethical on so many levels… and I am deeply disturbed and disgusted by this system, and feel betrayed by the people I thought I could trust. I mean, how could they do this to you? This is horrible! This is practically slavery!"

Well at least her righteous anger is not directed towards me. "You're not mad at me?"

She gives me a flummoxed look. "Why in Merlin's name would I be mad at you, Harry? No, of course not, none of this is your fault. Dumbledore, on the other hand… I trusted that man! I blindly followed him and would never have even known that he was capable of such things…"

"Trust me, I'm no fan of him either," I snort, before adding, "But are you really that surprised? Dumbledore has always been about the greater good—in this instance, he's probably right. What is my life in exchange for everyone else's? For yours?"

"That's not his decision to make." She retorts, firmly. "He can't just, just sign you off like cattle or something! You're a person!"

Hermione deflates after that, taking a calming breath. "With that out of the way," she begins anew, "I am still utterly furious, but I really can't get over the—… the socks, really? Why the socks?"

I smirk at that; I figured she'd get a kick out of that. "I think it was the whole outfit, really." I remark, offhand. "But yeah, dunno. They're just socks. I swear though, you'd think they hung the moon or something with the way he was worshipping them."

"That's hysterical," she marvels, raising a hand to her mouth.

The smile disappears then, turning into something somber and defiant. "But is he… is he treating you right?"

I blink. "I'm sorry?"

"I just can't imagine…" She trails of, shaking her head. "It's true he doesn't hunt muggles or muggleborns anymore, but that does not by any means suggest he's a nice man, or that his character has changed whatsoever."

"Oh, he's still horrible," I remark, offhand. "And I will admit it was…" I swallow thickly. "Unpleasant, in the beginning. But recently it's been… alright, I suppose."

I would really prefer not to get into the details with her right now, or ever, really. Just like with Uncle Vernon, this is one thing I will take to my grave.

"So… do you like him?"

The question catches me off guard. A flash of Tom, hovering over me, eyes wide with wonder as he traces the smile against my lips—another of him violently throwing me onto the floor, standing up with a furious expression.

"No." I answer, flatly. No, I really don't. He's a horrible, evil man. He killed my parents, and has made multiple attempts on my life; that's to speak nothing of how horrible he's been to me thereafter. It's a sobering thought: I really ought to remind myself of this more often.

She throws a conflicted gaze my way. "But… you're sleeping with him."

Of course she would catch that, I think, resigned. Hermione is far too perceptive for her own good. Or maybe I'm just far too transparent.

"It's—" I hesitate for one damning moment. Her eyes are so wide and grave. "It's complicated." I finish, lamely.

Hermione bites her lip. I expect her to bombard me with more questions—the alternative is far worse. She throws herself at me and starts bawling, and it is the most horrifying thing to ever happen to me. What the hell do I do with a woman sobbing on my shoulder? Women are scary. Crying women are even scarier.

"Hermione, it's alright," I pat her back awkwardly. "It's alright…"

"It's not," she sniffles, muffled by my shoulder, "I'm so sorry, Harry… I'm so, so sorry."

"You have nothing to be sorry for," I point out, but I think it goes unheard. She shakes her head against me, but says nothing else.

Well, I think this all went quite swimmingly, in all honesty. I was expecting something far more dramatic. This long crying spell aside, I think this has gone splendidly.

"And anyway," I remark offhand, "I haven't seen him in what feels like forever."

She pulls away, sniffling and wiping her eyes. "I thought you said you were staying with him."

"Well, yeah—but he's never home anyway."

Hermione stills at that, a pensive expression clouding her features. She sniffs again, dabbing at her makeup, looking deeply introspective. "Harry," she starts, slowly. "Do you think there might be a reason for that?"

"I'm assuming." I shrug. I don't think he's randomly disappearing to play cricket or something.

"Does he do that often? Just, disappear?"

"Not really—or rather, he hasn't in a while." I pause, thinking. "It happened a lot this summer."

Hermione nods, frowning deeply. "This summer…" She repeats, biting her lip with concentration. "There were a lot of Death Eater attacks this summer." She notes, quietly.

Were there? I never had much contact with the outside world; not to mention, I never cared much for it anyway.

"Have there been any now?"

"Well, no." She agrees, sounding unsure. "But that doesn't mean much. It might just be that they haven't been reported yet—or, they've yet to happen."

Like that isn't ominous.

I shake my head. "Well, there's no point in worrying about something that hasn't happened, right?"

Hermione does not look convinced.

.

.

.

I hate when Hermione is right.

So, Dumbledore almost died today. There was an attack on his life, perpetrated by Draco Malfoy—he managed to get Death Eaters into the school, wreaking chaos on the students and causing some serious property damage. But it had less to do with Malfoy and more to do with Professor Snape; he was the one who threw the killing curse apparently. Fawkes intervened somehow, so the Headmaster lives on. That's a lot of shit to happen on a rather unsuspecting Wednesday evening.

I'm not sure what to make of this.

It feels so strange to remember that there's a war going on… that I was bargained off to mitigate part of it, but not all of it.

No one in the school knows what to do with themselves—myself included. What do I do? Above everyone else, I'm the one in the precarious position. Where exactly do I stand in this war? Am I on the Dark Lord's side, because of the contract? Or is it my morality that I stand by—which is steadfastly against the idea of killing off the muggles and muggleborns and you know, the wizarding world at large.

I don't know what to do.

I avoid Hermione at every turn, withdrawing into all the quiet spaces in the castle; my favorite alcove in an abandoned tower on the east wing, the owlery steps, a dust covered fountain courtyard. I don't use my pendant. I don't even know if I can, anymore. I don't use it—and neither does he. He has not called me back. I do not count the days, but they bare their mark on me all the same.

I wonder if he thinks of me, at all.

That shouldn't hurt as much as it does; is he done with me, finally? After all of this, he's just going to, what, throw it all away?

I guess it was all a lie, then. I think, bitterly. Just when I thought he was starting to genuinely care—is that a joke? Hah. Voldemort is incapable of caring; a fact that I am very familiar with. At least I can console myself with the thought that I never truly let my guard down around him; I still always thought the worst in him. Apparently my subconscious has more foresight than my actual conscious. At some point as I stew in my own silent anger, the warm summer wind and the twinkling firefly lights lend an ambivalent quiet to the air. It's almost enough to cool my fury—almost, but not quite. It is, however, enough to finally break the last of my patience.

He was attempting something like this, in my own school, and he didn't even think it relevant to tell me? Why now? I mean, I knew something was going on, but I couldn't have expected this. I gave him time to explain— a two weeks now, at the very least. If he's not going to deign me with an explanation, then, well, I'm just going to rip one out of him myself then.

Without further ado—and while I still have this insensible bravery—I tug the necklace out from underneath my shirt, grasping it in my hand and activating it.

.

.

.

The manor is cool and quiet in the darkness.

At first I do not see him, squinting into the indeterminable shadows. Finally my vision clears; it's not a room I'm familiar with, but that doesn't matter. It is the man by the window that matters. He stares contemplatively at the starless sky, quiet and still. I don't think I have ever seen him so unmoving.

"Tom?" I whisper, fearfully, because something isn't right. All the anger I had washes away, leaving me feeling small and bare.

I move closer, hesitant, wondering if today is the day he returns to his former self and throws an unforgiveable at me. Or chains me up and locks me in a dungeon. Or finally decides he's over all this stressful emotional bullshit and just kills me. He doesn't do any of that, but to that end, he doesn't actually do anything at all. I reach his side, and he is still staring deeply, insistently, out into the gardens.

I suck in an alarmed breath when I see his expression; total, uncontrollable rage. It instills a tidal wave of fear within me. I don't really know what regard he holds me in, but whatever it is I don't think it will be enough to save me from this kind of anger. Someone has really, really pissed him off, and I hope it wasn't me.

My Gryffindor bravery (or stupidity) has me pulling gently on his sleeve, moving into his line of vision as I peer up at him. "What's wrong?"

Finally his gaze drifts away from the world outside, focusing in on me with an uncomfortable amount of intensity. I feel cold and shaky and maybe even a bit sick; I don't think I've ever been terrified enough for my fear to elicit an actual physical response, but I guess I just never had to face the full brunt of this vesuvian expression.

It's enough to make me flinch. I want to crawl out of his gaze and hide, but that wouldn't solve anything. And who else but me could possibly fix whatever situation made him so angry in the first place?

I search his features, nervously. "…Tom?"

Or maybe I'm completely wrong.

Maybe I'm the problem.

"Harry," he replies, unreadable—toneless. "What are you doing here?"

I toss him a wary glance. What am I supposed to say to that? I haven't felt this terrified of responding to him in a very long time. "I…" My throat works: nothing comes out. "I, um…" Everything I planned to say has left my head. School, right. That's what I'm here for. It is impossible to work this explanation out of my throat, however.

"I didn't summon you here," he continues as if he hadn't heard my feeble attempts at explanation—as if he's actually summoned me in months. I can't remember the last time he summoned me. I'm always going to him. The reminder is striking. And ominous.

"Uh, right." I remain wary and ill at ease, very carefully keeping a safe distance away, watching his wand for any sign of movement. "I just… I wanted to…"

I wanted to yell at you for attacking my school with crazed Death Eaters, but I've lost my confidence suddenly, you see. You look rather frightening today, and my self-preservation has kicked in, and is wisely telling me to keep my mouth shut. I do not say this, of course. But all the same, this is not exactly the only reason I'm here, and unfortunately I have enough self-awareness to admit that. It wasn't just my anger (okay, deep annoyance) that made me come here; that might have been the catalyst, but ultimately it was my own nerves. My own fear.

"I wanted to see you." I tell him, in a small voice.

He ignores this. "Return to your school, Harry." He commands me, not even bothering to turn around and face me.

Something is very, very wrong here. His face is cold as stone, expressionless, and I would have thought him perfectly calm if I wasn't keenly aware that he was about to erupt into a rage of unknown proportions. I know his mercurial moods better than anyone else—and have the foresight to realize that this is very bad indeed.

Enough foresight to wisely not speak on the matter of Hogwarts, and his recent attack on it, but not enough to realize that I'm playing with fire, that I should just shut up and leave.

"Are you… mad at me?" I hazard, carefully. I'm not sure what I could have done, though.

Finally, he turns to give me a cold, callous look. "You are trying my patience, Harry." He says, dangerously soft. "I believe I gave you an order."

I say nothing to this. He takes my silence as some sort of defiance. "And I will remind you that you are not allowed to disobey me."

I feel rooted to the spot. "… I—

His eyes flash; the danger is deceptive, so slight, and yet so volatile. My mouth clamps shut at the look. It's as if this whole year never happened, and I'm staring at the horrible monster that has ruined my life, and the man that held me in the dark and told me didn't want to hurt me anymore has faded into an unreachable memory.

"I'm ordering you to leave," he interrupts me. "And I do not want you to return."

I look up at him in horror, uncomprehending, unable to make my thoughts coalesce together into something coherent. This is not how I imagined this would be going, not at all.

"Leave, and go to a place where I can't find you."

I search his face, looking for something, anything, to tell me that this isn't real. His expression is unreadable; closed off from me. Even the bright gleam of his crimson eyes is unyielding. He's being completely serious.

"But I—" and still, the words won't come out. But I don't want to leave.

As if a part of me recognizes the fallacy in the words.

"Why?" I say instead.

He spares me an unreadable glance.

And then something cold takes its place. "I no longer have need of you."

A stab of hurt catches me by surprise, splintering in my chest in so painful a manner I almost want to look down and see if my ribcage has truly split open. Or maybe that's just my heart, which would be infinitely worse. It feels so strange to think not even a few weeks ago I was falling asleep in his arms and smiling with him as we explored each others bodies for what felt like the first time… and now it's come to this. I feel a very small part of me crumple at the cold, callous words—but another part of me is struck by something else. He told me to leave—to leave and go to a place where he cannot find me. I frown thoughtfully… there was something about the way he worded it, as if he wants me to run from him.

I take a deep breath, reminding myself that getting upset and angry with him is only going to make this worse.

"I don't think you ever needed me," I concede, softly, after a moment. My gaze flickers up to his, solemn and bereft of any bravery.

"You wanted me,"

A pause.

"Do you still?"

He holds my gaze, expression giving nothing away. He says nothing. The unending silence seems so conclusive, so sudden, a nameless presence everywhere, clotting in the space between us, heavy upon my shoulders. It is almost unbearable.

After a moment, I feel a very strange, facsimile smile light my face. I shake my head, folding my arms with a sigh. "I guess it really doesn't matter, does it?"

I turn around, wondering what the hell I'm doing. Am I really going to leave? Just… leave like this? Leave us like this? Do I want this to be our ending? I don't know—maybe it's not even my choice to make. I make for the doors; rational thought has left me. Only instinct remains.

I tug the necklace out from beneath my shirt. It takes a bit, but then the pendant is swinging in the air before me. I notice with consternation that my fingers are trembling. Am I really going to do this?

Then a grip of steel settles on my shoulder, wrenching me back with a punishing grip.

"Do you think I want this?" He hisses, so explosively furious it takes me by surprise.

I reel back in shock, mouth moving but now words coming out.

"T—Then why…" I swallow thickly. "Why are you doing this?"

A very peculiar expression takes over his face—thousands of them, more than I've ever seen before, flittering past far too quickly for me to catch. There's anger—oh, a great deal of that, as usual, but there is far more than that too. Concern? Or perhaps… fear? But that can't be possible.

He grips my chin tightly, but it is his gaze that is far more painful.

After a long moment he releases me.

"I am not doing it voluntarily." He hisses, slowly.

I blink. Thoughts whirl through me; what could have made him do this? I gaze back at him, just as deeply. He's telling the truth; whatever the reason is, it is wholly against his will. But what could possibly be making him? What could possibly make the dark lord do anything? Someone is making him give me away, clearly. But who could possibly have the kind of power to do that? Regardless of what he thinks of me as a person, I'll never stop being his horcrux. That alone makes me of infinite value to him.

I suck in a breath, suddenly.

There is nothing he values more than— his soul. His horcruxes. Dumbledore. The attack, so abrupt and arbitrary. Malfoy had all year to let the Death Eaters in, I know he had to have taken the mark before term, so why had he waited so long? Suddenly it all makes sense. Dumbledore must have gotten his hands on another horcrux, and forced Voldemort's hand—and ruined everything. The precarious balance that had existed previously has been shattered into nothing, taking the validity of the contract along with it.

I take a step back, searching him with wide eyes.

"Who?" I demand. "Who is it? Who's making you do this? It's Dumbledore, isn't it, that's why you—

"What does it matter?" He cuts me off, viciously. "No one is making me do anything, I do as I please—

"Because—because it doesn't have to be this way!" I interrupt hysterical, backing away.

He rounds on me again; something slams right next to my head with a loud, horrible bang. I startle—it is his hand, caging me in against the wall. I hadn't even realized I'd backed myself into it until he'd successfully caged me in, a look of total fury on his face.

I ignore it, and continue. "Who was it?" I ask, in a rush. "It's—it's a horcrux, right? It can't be anything else." But this is an affirmation, not really a question.

The answer is already written on his face.

"Who? Dumbledore?" I repeat, frantically. "Is that why you killed him—or, tried to kill him?" Wait, is this why he's making me leave? Because he tried to kill Dumbledore, and failed? What does this mean?

"It doesn't matter who," he counters. "That is besides the point."

I blink at him, rapidly. "How is that besides the point?" I return, incredulous.

"Because I gave you an order, and you are contractually obligated to follow it." He replies, coldly.

This stops whatever retort I had in response. I swallow with some difficulty, knowing he's right. Something stiff has crawled into my throat, burning in the back of my nose. I really don't want to cry right now, but I am terrified enough that it is a real possibility. Terrified and—and I don't know. Hurt. Confused. I refuse to say heartbroken.

I feel… lost. I don't understand how this could all end up so horribly. Everything actually looked like it was going well, for once in my very short existence.

"Right," I agree, stonily, not meeting his gaze. I take a shaky breath. "I'll just… leave you to it, then." I fish out the pendant, holding it between my trembling fingers.

I don't get very far in that though, for he grips my hand with a force that I'm not expecting. With an expression I'm not expecting. His grip on my wrist is hard enough to leave bruises tomorrow, or worse, for he appears to be expending a lot of effort into reigning in his anger.

"Don't make this more difficult than it already is, Harry." He says, through gritted teeth.

I don't know what that means, but whatever it is it's far worse than the cold anger. When he's cruel and indifferent it's easy to forget that there might actually be a real human being underneath all that psychotic mess. An incredibly fucked up and emotionally stunted human being, but a person nonetheless.

"I—I'm not trying to," I insist, weakly.

He takes a breath. "Then… Do as I asked. Leave—to a place I cannot find you. And don't ever return."

I feel like he took an icepick and lodged it into my heart. No, maybe even that isn't painful enough to describe what I'm feeling. It feels like he took that icepick and cut me open with it, and then decided to pluck out every part of me, leaving the heart for last so I would still be alive to feel it.

I don't say anything to this. I don't think I'm capable of it. And yet, he said it again. Telling me to go—to go away from him. To leave and never return. Something about this gives me confidence.

"But… why?" My voice breaks, but there is still something imploring to my tone. "Can you just… tell me why? I don't get it—if Dumbledore's taken one of your horcruxes, why don't you just take it back? Can't we even try?"

"Don't you understand?" He hisses, furious. "What was or was not taken isn't the point. That I can be blackmailed at all is the issue here. You are a weakness, Harry. And I do not tolerate weakness."

I am trying very hard to remain unaffected by all of this, to keep a rational, level head through it all, but he's making it very fucking difficult. As it is, it takes most of my energy to stop myself from making a sound; from letting a single tear fall. I wonder if my expression actually moved him somehow, for he makes an irritated noise as he straightens up, looking away as he runs a hand through his hair in a surprisingly human gesture.

"But there is more to my decision than that." He sighs.

"You do not belong here, Harry, and you know that as well as I do." He says, completely blindsiding me.

"…What?" I blink, uncomprehending.

"You are better off far away from here—from all of this."

"W—what do you mean?" I sputter, still not following. His change from icy fury to wary unease is disorienting. That he can feel unease at all is disorienting. "What do you mean, 'all of this?' From you?" I snort. He's not actually trying to pretend like he has a single altruistic bone in his body, is he?

"From everything." He clarifies. "From here, your school you are so fond of—everything. It was your precious Dumbledore who signed you away in the first place—and the Minister was not all that eager to speak on your behalf, either. This world has no qualms in using you for their own advantage—myself included."

"That's not—

"That's not what?" He interrupts. "True? You're not honestly attempting to argue this, are you? I know you're not that naïve."

I struggle for words. "No, I'm not." I concede, quietly. "I know you're right…"

"They will use you against me, Harry." He continues. "In any way possible: they already have."

I look down. "I… I know."

"And I won't hesitate to do the same." He adds, making my blood run cold.

I study the marble floor closely, thousands of thoughts ripping past me without enough time for me to catch them. "I know." I repeat, hollow.

I bring my gaze towards him, even if it hurts. "But I don't want to leave, anyway." I say, in a small voice.

I wonder if, perhaps, what I'm seeing is the faint ghost of a smile. "I know. Which is why I'm not giving you a choice in the matter."

This conversation has completely gotten away from me. My first thought is an irrational irritation; who the hell does he think he is, telling me what to do or how to feel? This is quickly overtaken by the more rational part of my brain, which unhelpfully reminds me that he is perfectly within his rights to do that, considering he contractually owns me. And after that is a wan, foreign sadness: there is so much sorrow, but it is made even more painful by the accompaniment of affection that follows.

Because I know why he's doing this. For himself, of course, but that's not all. There is a part of him that really is doing it for me. Something resigned and regretful eats away at me. Resigned, because I've finally acknowledged that I don't want to leave him; that what I feel for him is stronger than my own self preservation. And regret, because I know I'll never get to tell him this.

"Tom…"

"Go, Harry," he urges. "Go—before I change my mind."

For a quick, almost insignificant moment I wonder how I could try to make him change his mind, repeal his decision and let me stay; but then it is quickly overtaken by a maelstrom of deep-seated fear, sadness, regret and an overwhelming sense of loss. He's right, on all accounts. My life has more meaning as a bargaining tool, apparently, and I don't think any of them are above using me for their own gain. That he acknowledges this at all, though, puts him leagues ahead of the other two. That he is even attempting to save me from this fate… speaks volumes.

"Tomorrow," I find myself saying. "I'll go tomorrow."

It's the right thing to do, for both of us. He's right. But I just—

"One more night," I step closer, reaching up to whisper the words against his lips. "Please—just give me one more night."

His eyes slip shut at that. He doesn't say anything, but I know I've won. And when he closes the infinitesimal gap between us he only confirms it. Completely incapable of saying no when I beg, as usual. The thought makes me feel both fondness and a foreboding sense of fear. This might be the last time this ever happens.

I return his touch as if every single one might be the last; this may actually be true. I can't come to terms with any of this, so instead I allow my mind to stop worrying into hysterics, let myself forget about everything else but this moment.

But the task is difficult. There is something far different to this love making; an infinite sorrow. I don't want it to end.

It is sweet and slow, and all the more awful for it. I don't want to cry, because crying during sex is so lame, but I'm pretty sure I'm doing it anyway. I hide my face in my neck, as if this could possibly mask them, as if he couldn't feel them on his skin anyway. I choke back a sob when I realize this will be the last time I ever get to hold him like this; it reminds me of all the time we wasted, all the time we could have had to do this. I'll never get that back: there won't be another opportunity.

When I lean up to kiss him, he returns it with a fervor as if he's trying to convince me to stay. Like he doesn't want me to leave, either. Of course he doesn't. I'm his. I belong here, and now that I've finally gotten around to admitting it I'm being summarily kicked out. Kicked out for my own good, I remind myself.

I acknowledge that I'm not making this any easier for him. Not by being super emotional, and definitely not by asking him to let me stay for just a little bit longer. I really don't want to make this more difficult for us, but it's really hard to be a mature adult right now, okay. I want to be a child; I want to pout and whine and throw a fucking tantrum right now, but that's not going to get us anywhere.

I don't do any of that. I don't really have the energy for it, first off. I feel like I've been drained of everything, already hollow and cold and empty, even when he is so deep inside me I can't tell where I end and he begins, both too lost in each other for endings or beginnings.

.

.

.

.

I leave the portkey necklace on the bedside table. If I kept it, I don't think I'd be able to resist the temptation. As it is, I'm barely succeeding in resisting the temptation to look back; because I know if I do, I'm never going to leave. I steel my resolve, fists clenched and shaking as I silently move through the pre-dawn glow. I reach the doors, opening them quietly, revealing the hallway on the other side. I take a deep breath.

I don't look back.

I don't look—but it doesn't help the splintering pain in my chest, or stop the foolish tears that roll down my cheeks.

It's for the best, I remind myself.

This is no consolation for my constricting heart, but there is a solemn, sobering acknowledgment that rises within a part of me. The part of me that reminds me how terrible and evil he really is, how dangerous and cruel and sadistic—how cruel and sadistic he's been to me. How terrible they all are, this whole world really, and how he is apparently, irrationally, the only one who recognizes how fucked up they all are. I choke back a sob—of course he would choose now to be a good person. Just when I wish he wouldn't be. I steel my resolve, refusing to look back, to do anything but keep walking forward.

It's for the best.

.

.

.

I close my eyes and walk away.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

finis

.

Four years later, the Minister of Magic receives a letter.

It is an address. Beneath is a scrawl he's never seen before; one that elicits a strange longing within him regardless.

Come find me.

.

.

.

.

---

ahaha not actually the end. there is an epilogue, i swear.