Author's Note: I rarely ever give warnings on my stories - just one of my quirks - but this time I wanted to warn that this chapter deals with a ritual that some might find distasteful so please, don't come crying to me about it. It's only a story.

Chapter 2

Blood spills onto the altar, warm and sticky, and black in the dim lighting of the secret chamber. The sound of explosions, the crackle of magic, and the blood curdling screams of agony above are distant and muffled, almost impossible to hear above the rasp of his own breath, the pounding of his heart. Tom Riddle shudders, eyes wide and fearful, as pain slashes across his gut like the blade of a knife slicing into flesh, making him gasp and choke.

Too much, it was going to be too much, but he had to try, he had to, if he didn't, he would die and this would all be for nothing, for no one. Pressing a hand to his stomach, he pours more blood, the sickeningly sweet smell of it making his insides churn. This wasn't supposed to be so difficult, so personal, but it was and he only had once chance, one single chance, to make this right.

Dropping the pail, its contents gone and empty, he ignores the clatter it makes against the ground and smears his hands in the bloody pool, smoothing the rapidly cooling liquid over the altar until it oozes down the sides. Another sharp excruciating slash of pain, this time in his chest, and he stumbles forward, dripping hands fumbling with the fastenings of his robes, staining the green fabric. He can feel it coming, racing through his veins, marking him for pain and death, but he won't allow it. He won't allow it.

Ripping at the last remnants of his robes, he lurches forward, swinging his body up and onto the cold bloody marble, pale white skin glowing against the ruby red. Wriggling, green eyes pinched, he coats his body with the life essence of his enemy, his friend, his love, his life. Rolling and swaying, he paints his skin, fingers and mind frantic.

He doesn't have much time. No time at all, really. He has to get this done; he has to get this over with. Closing his eyes, Tom breathes out a name, hands streaking down his cheeks, his chest, his abdomen, until he's holding his soft member in his hands, blooding it with single minded determination.

He can do this, he can.

Another exhalation, the name on his tongue, and he braces his heels against the altar, spreading his legs wide. The cold marble against his back makes him shiver but he pays it no heed, forcing it out of his mind viciously, as all his concentration narrows down to one place, one point, one person. Heartbeat thundering, he strokes himself, sex soft and pliant in his grip.

It doesn't take long for it to begin to twitch, arousal sparking in his belly despite the pain, as he imagines green eyes, soft lips, the honey sweet smell of warm breath and his name spoken in tender duress. Sweet Darkness, he can do this.

Pumping a hand slowly, Tom plays with himself, rubbing and coaxing, until his erection is filling and hardening in his hands. Yes, dear Merlin, yes. He can almost feel the hot breath of his lover; hear the ragged sound of pants, the strained whispers against his skin.

Yes.

Licking dry lips, the copper taste of blood exploding on his tongue, he curls his hand, squeezing gently around the fat reddening head of his dick, groaning in pleasure. He can do this, he can do this for them. Another squeeze and he's drifting a hand downward, spreading his legs even more as his chilly fingers caress his balls, massaging against downy skin.

This is good. This is so good. Mouth opening, pink tongue peeking from between, he strokes himself, slashes of pain and pleasure sending golden sparks flashing behind his eyelids. To imagine the hot grasp of his lover, his mate, and the sloppy warm trails of spit that would slide over his dick as he was engulfed.

A deep bellied groan escapes him, hips rising, pushing his dick into the blood slickened channel of his hand, erection hardening even still at the white hot image of sliding home flitters across his mind. Pre-come drizzles on his stomach with every tight squeeze of his hand and Tom hastens his movements, hand sliding up from his balls to swipe some of it before sliding back down, further this time, until his come coated fingers and rubbing against his entrance.

A gentle push and the tip of his middle finger slides inside making him choke. Pulling at his member, he moves them in tandem, stroking down as he pushes in, electric sparks of magic ricocheting through the room. Opening his eyes, he stares blankly at the gray ceiling above him, the sounds of battle unheard, as he fucks himself with his fingers, erection leaking.

"Harry," he whispers, eyes squeezing shut again as the sharp spike of magic strikes, forcing his orgasm from him and making him scream.

For them, he can do this. He knows he can.