Ron and Hermione, in the grand scheme of things, were clueless. True,
Hermione was exceptionally smart, and Ron exceptionally true, but neither
could truly comprehend darkness, nor could either of them understand the
need for release, for passion without love, for a taste of the forbidden.
After awhile though, after many late nights, after many conspicuous absences, after many quickly thought of lies, they realized that something was going on. Harry was too restless, too quick to snap, too ... different.
His eyes were unfocused, always staring off into something that only he could see. His hands drummed restlessly on his tables, his chairs, his books, constantly in motion, constantly going. His mind wandered, he wouldn't respond to teachers, he wouldn't respond to friends, he wouldn't even respond to Draco - just pushed right by him, leaving a look of confusion etched across his rival's face.
He ignored Ron, often getting up and leaving right in the middle of a story, or joke, or question. He didn't see the pain in his friend's eyes, the feeling of abandonment, the worry, the questioning. Harry didn't see anything anymore - except for one thing.
Images of elegant hands, glimmering strands of golden hair, beautifully unique silver eyes, swam across his vision, racing up his heartbeat, centering heat in his groin. A never ending desire swam through his veins, making him want and want and want, and making him sneak away, break the rules, and find the feelings he had forgotten he had.
His fingers unconsciously traced patterns across his schoolbooks, patterns that he would later trace across firm muscles, soft skin, silky hair, burning heat itself. They moved constantly, as if afraid that they would forget the work of art they had been witness too, as though they were afraid that they would never again see the missing piece be assembled, or see the light go off in the darkness.
He only thought of Lucius now, ignoring Draco, who had to suspect that something was amiss. He constantly asked what was wrong, why Harry was acting differently, why things were so cut off and cold. But Harry had no answers. He shrugged everything off, immersing himself completely in his forbidden meetings, the joining of two bodies that were meant to be enemies, that were meant to stay far away from each other, that were meant to give pain, not receive pleasure.
Those meetings enabled Harry to block out the real world - to bring him to a state of bliss, wiping out the memories of death and betrayal and hatred that plagued his days and nights. To feel those elegant fingers kneading, pulling, massaging, making his eyes roll back in his head, prompting low moans to spill out of his throat.
And those soft lips, harsh yet not, warm and intense, pressing so nicely against his own. Soft tongue, probing his mouth, dueling with his own. Skin against skin, so hot, so very, very hot, searing. Hands gripping and restraining, bodies aligning, hardness slipping into softness, hot, tight, pleasure. In and out, in and out, over and over again, a steady rhythm, pleasure building, stronger, harder, faster, coming, coming, so very, very close, so...close...now.
Out of breath, gasping, body shaking with feelings, so intense, so very intense, still embedded, still gripping, skin still against skin. Soft tongue dragging along soft skin, leaving a trail, breath blowing softly, flesh standing on edge, stirring feelings once more, fingers back again, prodding, finding the heat, the tightness, coming home.
Back for more. Growls emitted, whimpers of pleasure, sighs of contentment, cries of having the forbidden fruit splayed out for their tasting. Silky blonde hair brushing against his shoulder, murmurs of how very right it felt, murmurs of how it was wrong, but how it didn't matter, murmurs about how very dangerous it all was, murmurs of defiance.
Those silver eyes, darkened with lust, boring into his own, seeing right through him, reading his soul, delving into his very being. Discovering every hidden thought, every vision, every feeling. Knowing him. Owning him. Making him his own.
That was how they were found - staring straight at each other, eyes locked, bodies entwined. They never noticed the door opening, never noticed the man entering, never noticed the red eyes, red with hints of green, of a person from the past, of a memory from another time. The other man with long, elegant fingers, but fingers that caused pain, took lives, and rejoiced in doing so. The other man with silky hair, but black hair, black as night, black as the darkness that engulfed him. The other man with the muscular body, etched in all the right places, mouth-watering, poised to pounce, ready to leap.
The other man who went by the name of Voldemort.
After awhile though, after many late nights, after many conspicuous absences, after many quickly thought of lies, they realized that something was going on. Harry was too restless, too quick to snap, too ... different.
His eyes were unfocused, always staring off into something that only he could see. His hands drummed restlessly on his tables, his chairs, his books, constantly in motion, constantly going. His mind wandered, he wouldn't respond to teachers, he wouldn't respond to friends, he wouldn't even respond to Draco - just pushed right by him, leaving a look of confusion etched across his rival's face.
He ignored Ron, often getting up and leaving right in the middle of a story, or joke, or question. He didn't see the pain in his friend's eyes, the feeling of abandonment, the worry, the questioning. Harry didn't see anything anymore - except for one thing.
Images of elegant hands, glimmering strands of golden hair, beautifully unique silver eyes, swam across his vision, racing up his heartbeat, centering heat in his groin. A never ending desire swam through his veins, making him want and want and want, and making him sneak away, break the rules, and find the feelings he had forgotten he had.
His fingers unconsciously traced patterns across his schoolbooks, patterns that he would later trace across firm muscles, soft skin, silky hair, burning heat itself. They moved constantly, as if afraid that they would forget the work of art they had been witness too, as though they were afraid that they would never again see the missing piece be assembled, or see the light go off in the darkness.
He only thought of Lucius now, ignoring Draco, who had to suspect that something was amiss. He constantly asked what was wrong, why Harry was acting differently, why things were so cut off and cold. But Harry had no answers. He shrugged everything off, immersing himself completely in his forbidden meetings, the joining of two bodies that were meant to be enemies, that were meant to stay far away from each other, that were meant to give pain, not receive pleasure.
Those meetings enabled Harry to block out the real world - to bring him to a state of bliss, wiping out the memories of death and betrayal and hatred that plagued his days and nights. To feel those elegant fingers kneading, pulling, massaging, making his eyes roll back in his head, prompting low moans to spill out of his throat.
And those soft lips, harsh yet not, warm and intense, pressing so nicely against his own. Soft tongue, probing his mouth, dueling with his own. Skin against skin, so hot, so very, very hot, searing. Hands gripping and restraining, bodies aligning, hardness slipping into softness, hot, tight, pleasure. In and out, in and out, over and over again, a steady rhythm, pleasure building, stronger, harder, faster, coming, coming, so very, very close, so...close...now.
Out of breath, gasping, body shaking with feelings, so intense, so very intense, still embedded, still gripping, skin still against skin. Soft tongue dragging along soft skin, leaving a trail, breath blowing softly, flesh standing on edge, stirring feelings once more, fingers back again, prodding, finding the heat, the tightness, coming home.
Back for more. Growls emitted, whimpers of pleasure, sighs of contentment, cries of having the forbidden fruit splayed out for their tasting. Silky blonde hair brushing against his shoulder, murmurs of how very right it felt, murmurs of how it was wrong, but how it didn't matter, murmurs about how very dangerous it all was, murmurs of defiance.
Those silver eyes, darkened with lust, boring into his own, seeing right through him, reading his soul, delving into his very being. Discovering every hidden thought, every vision, every feeling. Knowing him. Owning him. Making him his own.
That was how they were found - staring straight at each other, eyes locked, bodies entwined. They never noticed the door opening, never noticed the man entering, never noticed the red eyes, red with hints of green, of a person from the past, of a memory from another time. The other man with long, elegant fingers, but fingers that caused pain, took lives, and rejoiced in doing so. The other man with silky hair, but black hair, black as night, black as the darkness that engulfed him. The other man with the muscular body, etched in all the right places, mouth-watering, poised to pounce, ready to leap.
The other man who went by the name of Voldemort.