A/N:
yeah i don't know why i wrote this other than i had the idea for it. if i'm missing any tags, please let me know. i will probably edit this again later but i wanted to post it so here we are.
i think this is my first time writing this kind of dynamic? and my first unhappy ending. we're breaking out the champagne for this one, i suppose. sorry for not updating anything else i'm writing, i'll get to them eventually.
Tags/Warnings: AU - Fairytale, Beauty and the Beast Fusion, Extremely Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Mindfuck, Torture, Stockholm Syndrome, Suicidal Thoughts, Unhappy Ending
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Certain as the Sun
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Harry leaves in the dead of night on his father's horse, Hedwig. The wind bites at his face as he rides into the cold but he trusts Hedwig knows where to go. How to get to the beast.
While he rides, he attempts to banish the sight of his father's shameful, grief-stricken face from his mind. A lily flower for his mother. For what? For misery. For misery and a life debt. A debt that Harry will now fulfill in his father's place for he, like his father, could never bear to see his mother unhappy. But the loss of a son will heal with time. His parents will have each other.
Harry's heart squeezes with sadness as his family's cottage fades from view over his shoulder. This will be the last time he sees it.
Soon, his life will be in the hands of another. Soon, his life will end.
The forest engulfs him, drenching him and Hedwig in black and white, in silence and snow. The light of his oil lamp extinguishes not long after, falling prey to winter's cruel clutches. Harry shivers and draws his cloak closer to his body. How long until he reaches the castle? His father had said Hedwig would know the way, led by magic no less, but Harry cannot quite fathom such a journey, magically-charmed horse or no.
And yet what feels like both hours and minutes later, Harry can distinguish the shape of brambles up ahead. Thorny and unwelcoming, just like the beast that his father had described.
Harry dismounts and makes his way onto the grounds by foot. Past the brambles and across the overgrown bridge is the gloomy, foreboding castle.
It is a massive thing. Harry has no idea how it has remained hidden for so long. More magic, perhaps. But the stones are old and worn, cracked all over and covered with vines and moss.
Once upon a time, this place may have been beautiful. Now it is a beautiful ruin.
The castle doors, large and wooden, gradually swing inward to permit Harry's entrance. Harry leads Hedwig forward, both of their footsteps light on the dusty marble floors. A stiff winter breeze ruffles the hood of his cloak just before the doors unceremoniously slam shut behind him.
Harry startles, much to his own dismay. Now without even the light of the moon to guide him, he turns and squints into the darkness.
"Hello? I am here to pay my father's debt," Harry calls out. His voice echoes all around the entrance hall until it returns to him like a wayward ghost.
Next to him, Hedwig whines uneasily. Harry rubs her neck to soothe her and this seems to help somewhat. She settles enough to nudge his head with her nose.
"Hello?" Harry repeats, louder than before. The enormous size of this space makes him sound small and meek.
Then, all at once, a dozen candles flicker to life. They are dots of light scattered around him, bringing a hint of warmth to this cold, forsaken castle. Harry spins around, unnerved as he examines the stone pillars and tattered fabric banners.
"Magic," he mumbles. On instinct, his hand reaches for the hilt of his dagger. However, when his fingers bump against the frozen metal, he remembers he is not here to fight. He is here to surrender.
He is supposed to surrender. Harry swallows. He does not enjoy the idea of going to his death, but if he fights and loses, what will become of his parents? He could not bear to think of them slain by this magical beast.
Hedwig snorts softly and stomps her hoof on the floor. Harry feels his anxiety double. He loosens his grip on her reins, then takes half a step back. It isn't safe here. He should let her go.
"Come on, girl," Harry whispers. "I am going to take you back outside."
Harry takes another half step back.
In response, half of the candles go out.
The sudden absence of light is suffocating. Harry's heart begins to pound, loud in his ears, telling him to run. To escape while he can.
Hedwig brays, her body swaying with unease. Harry lays a hand on her flank to calm her and—before he can second guess himself—staggers backwards until his shoulders collide with the castle doors.
The rest of the candles die before he even makes contact with the wood.
The darkness chokes him. He can't swallow or speak or breathe. Instead, panic crawls down his throat like an over-sized leech, muffling his cry of terror as something seizes his ankle.
Arms flailing, Harry whirls around and shoves with all his might at the doors that keep him and Hedwig trapped inside.
The grip around him tightens, an unforgiving manacle that tethers him to the floor. Then laughter fills the air, low and heavy like a late autumn fog, saturating Harry with fear. His nails scrape uselessly against the wood grain, scrambling for purchase as he is hauled back.
But the doors open. They open wide.
Hedwig's lead slips from his hand as he finds his voice and screams, "HEDWIG, RUN!" at the top of his lungs.
And Hedwig, who has always been a loyal horse, shrieks like a banshee as she barrels out into the night.
The sight does not last. The castle closes in on itself once more, creaking and groaning with the herculean effort. Through the rapidly thinning gap between doors, Harry watches Hedwig's hooves sink into a fresh layer of snow that has spread over the ground. A path of shallow prints trail behind her as she fades from view.
"Did you think you could leave?" snarls a deep voice from somewhere over his shoulder.
Harry doesn't get to respond. Clawed hands seize both his ankles and tear his feet out from underneath him. The force of it is so excessive that for a brief second, it feels like floating.
Unprepared and unable to brace himself, Harry slams into the ground hard enough to knock the remaining air from his lungs. His jaw and nose are spared most of the impact, but the same cannot be said for the rest of his body. His bones jolt in their sockets, throbbing in time with his erratic heartbeats.
Somehow, despite all this, Harry manages to wheeze, "No."
"Good," says the beast, and as darkness falls over Harry's eyes like a silk blindfold, he imagines the monster is smiling.
From there, the beast drags him. Harry's body is carted through the castle like dead cattle, his cloak tangling with his clothes as they traverse hall after hall. He's too dazed and in pain to protest, though after some time he does attempt to twist his body around to catch a glimpse of his captor.
There is not enough light to distinguish much other than a silhouette. The beast is a towering titan draped in heavy, formless fabric. The slivers of moonlight that touch upon the monster reveal pale, alabaster skin. But it is the clawed hand wrapped tight around his ankle that reminds him that he is not meant to survive what will come.
Harry's head knocks against a corner and a fallen chunk of rock before he has the sense to wrap his arms around it. He is too disoriented to do much other than that, especially with no light to aid him, and this problem is further exacerbated when the beast takes them down a flight of stairs.
It's all Harry can do to cushion his head and face from the punishing impact of each descending step. He aches all over by the time they reach the bottom. Sharp pains layered over dull pains layered over bone-deep exhaustion. Harry keeps his mouth closed firmly around a dozen gasps of pain, his eyes pinched shut around tears that he refuses to let out.
Harry thinks he must have sprained something, or broken something, but he suspects the truth is simply that he has been injured all over and is looking for one place to pin the blame. A single point of pain would be easier to manage than this. His body is an open wound, bleeding and bruised, ripe red and purple for this beast to peel open.
The floors on this level are damp and putrid. Harry is vaguely reassured by the fact that he can smell before the sound of squealing metal pierces his ears and floods his brain, drowning out coherent thought.
Harry's body is dragged over a metal bracket. His ankle is at last released. He does not manage to sit up before the deafening groan of metal signals the gate of his prison cell slamming shut.
The beast leaves.
Once Harry is certain the beast is truly gone, he maps out enough of the cell space to prop himself up in one of the corners. His breaths are uneven and each one aggravates his injured chest.
There is no light. There is no heat. He has his cloak and his dagger and nothing else.
Where has the monster gone? To fetch torture implements?
But no monster returns. Harry dozes in and out of wakefulness for the next several hours. Moving makes his limbs throb and twitch with pain. He's so disoriented that he fails to notice how dry his mouth is until he licks his lips out of habit and finds them chapped and cracking.
Perhaps the beast intends for him to starve to death down here. Harry can't decide if that would be better than being torn to pieces. At least a brutal death at the beast's hands would end the agony of his battered body.
Harry remains in the cell, shivering and filled with despair, until what he assumes is morning. The beast returns, no lamp in hand. The oppressive sensation of his presence serves as Harry's only warning as he is unceremoniously seized around the neck and hoisted into the air.
He cannot scream. Even if he were to try, his throat is far too parched to manage any sound. The beast's arms are like steel bars and the stone wall behind him is rough and unyielding. Harry chokes and thrashes. The thrashing hurts, pain radiating throughout every atom of his body.
The beast's breath fans over his face. Warm, dry air. "You attempted to escape me," the beast hisses. "I may kill your parents for that slight."
"Please," Harry rasps, breath hitching in his throat. "Please…" He's incoherent, he realizes. Hysteria churns his stomach to the point where he thinks he may vomit.
The beast looms closer. "You tried to run."
"I didn't…" Harry's head lolls dangerously for a brief second. The beast fists a hand in his hair and drags him up, forcing their gazes to meet.
Finally, finally, the monster lets up enough for Harry to inhale a raw gasp of air that scrapes the inside of his throat. Somehow, despite the complete absence of light, Harry sees red eyes. The gleam is so bright that Harry is certain it must be magic that lights them.
"No?"
"No," Harry whispers. "I swear."
The beast's claws scratch over his scalp then withdraw. Harry waits with bated breath for a death blow that does not come.
"Are you—" Harry pauses. Not because speaking hurts, but because he is unsure of what he wants to say. "Are you going to kill me, now?" The words leave him like knives, scarring his flesh on their way out.
In response, the beast drops him onto the floor. Harry gasps, clutching at his bruised ribs. Below those terrifying red eyes stretches a wide white grin.
"Your life is forfeit. What I do with it is not your concern."
Harry shudders. "What do you want? With me." His sentence cracks in the middle, a crippling sign of just how much he has deteriorated since arriving at the castle.
A hand cups his chin, lifting it. Harry's muscles strain with the new position. He has half a mind to protest it before his face is suddenly drowning in freezing cold water.
The weight of the water is just as damaging as its temperature—Harry's mouth drops open enough for some to trickle into his throat, but the first relieving gulp rapidly morphs into gagging as the water continues to pour down, forcing its way into his mouth and nose, soaking into his hair and clothes.
His face burns. Harry splutters and struggles to pull back, but the beast's merciless grip holds him in place. Even with his mouth closed, the water continues pouring into him.
There is no relief. Harry's vision, already black as night, spots with strange, blurry colours. His lungs strain, drawn brutally tight with the need for air. When he is at last released, his body cast aside like a rag doll, he hurls the contents of his stomach onto the floor.
The beast is silent as Harry spits and gags, ice water dripping from his lashes. Eventually he slumps back against the wall, weak and breathless.
Then, finally, the darkness comes to an end. A glowing orb hovers at the monster's side, illuminating the small prison cell.
"Just do it," Harry rasps, shutting his eyes against the sudden influx of light. "Kill me."
When the beast traces the line of Harry's jaw with a sharp fingertip, Harry flinches.
"Look at me."
Reluctantly, Harry opens his eyes. Heavy black robes meet his gaze. He raises his line of sight, barely registering the beast's towering height. Then he looks upon the face.
The beast's face is a work of art, art composed purely of unnatural angles and savage inhumanity. Flawless in its horror. Grotesque in its otherness. Chalk white skin faintly patterned with scales. Bloody, crimson eyes set so deep that their depths look endless. Pronounced slits in place of proper nostrils are bracketed by abnormal cheekbones. Rows of pointed teeth set into a vicious smile that slashes wide.
"Do you think me a monster?" asks the beast, his sibilant tone at odds with the feral angle of his head.
Harry is too numb with fear to respond. What good would it do him if he did? He is damned regardless of how he answers.
The beast settles into a crouch. He remains at a decent height compared to Harry; the lack of distance between them only heightens Harry's unease.
"This castle," begins the beast, "was once grand. This kingdom was once mine. And I..." The beast drags the tip of his nail to rest just underneath Harry's left eye. "I was once handsome."
Harry cannot imagine a handsome face laid over the reptilian monstrosity before him. The beast is too alien, too revolting to be considered human.
"You ask what I want with you." The beast's smile grows wide. It is devoid of cheer. "Your father was the first to stumble upon my kingdom in decades. I had considered keeping him here, just as I now keep you. Then he told me of his affectionate wife. Of his brave, virtuous son."
Harry shuts his eyes, but the beast's nail presses down, shoving at the delicate skin as if to gouge, and so Harry forces himself to reopen them, to look upon his captor. A jolt of fear shoots up his spine as he makes eye contact with the monster.
"I sent him to say his final goodbyes," the beast adds, "hoping that you, foolish child, would come here in his stead." The fingertip slides to rest upon Harry's lower lip. "And here you lie, at the mercy of a beast."
"I am more than willing to die for them," Harry whispers, the scraps of his courage giving life to the words.
"I do not desire your death." The beast hums, a low sound that is pleasant to the ears. He cradles Harry's chin with one large hand. "To break the curse placed upon me, I require your love. And the heart of a married man is much harder to break than that of his unwed son."
At first, the context of the statement is lost on Harry. Who could ever love a beast?
"So you see the problem," the beast continues, having apparently interpreted Harry's silence as a response.
Harry does not. He also does not care to guess what the problem is.
The beast digs the tip of his finger into Harry's lower lip. The prick of it piercing his skin barely registers. Everything that does not hurt has been made utterly numb by the ice water.
"Voldemort has no need for love," the beast says, voice now a deep rumble. "But I will have it from you."
Harry realizes far too late to disguise the incredulity that distorts his face. "No," he breathes, anxiety and fear writhing in the pit of his stomach like a live snake.
"Your love," Voldemort croons, his grip tightening on Harry's face, "whether you wish it or not." Then he leans his and forces a kiss upon Harry's unwilling lips.
The beast's mouth is cold and damp. Fresh tears gather in the corner of Harry's eyes as he twists in place, protesting in the limited way that he can.
Voldemort withdraws and regards Harry with amusement. He licks his lips with a forked tongue and laughs. Does he taste Harry's blood there? Harry feels sick.
"You will see," Voldemort promises. "You will come to love a beast in time."
"Never," Harry spits out. He is certain of that.
Voldemort regards him with contempt. With a slash of his hand, Harry's cloak severs from his shoulders, ruined fabric slumping to the ground. Voldemort banishes it to the side and sets it on fire with little more than a flick of his fingers. Harry watches blankly as the flames consume and die, leaving ashes behind. He longs for the heat and wonders what it would be like to toss himself into the fire.
"You will," Voldemort says coldly. He thoroughly reclaims Harry's attention when he hurls Harry back into the wall.
Harry's head collides with the stone, hard enough that his consciousness is once again stolen from him, and then he knows nothing.
Harry wakes to new pain. His stomach gnawing on itself, shrivelling away. He shivers as he refocuses on his surroundings. His clothes are still damp and he is trembling uncontrollably. There is a metal shackle around his ankle that tethers him to the wall. Harry has the smallest hope that he may die from his environment before the beast—Voldemort—returns.
He coughs regularly, and each cough hurts. It is a deep-set hurt that starts in his chest and expands like a raging forest fire. When he breathes out, it feels as if his insides are trying to tear themselves from his body and escape through his esophagus.
The cold is endless and there is nowhere to seek comfort. The dagger he'd carried with him is gone, meaning death is no longer an option for him. Even the sanctuary of his mind is tainted, the memory of Voldemort's violent touch and promises of violation enough to rob him of any happy thought.
He will never love Voldemort. Whatever the beast thinks, Harry will not succumb to him.
Harry sags against the wall and stares out at nothing. His eyes attempt to make shapes out of thin air, the darkness that surrounds his current miserable existence. His mouth is dry again, but that seems to be the least of his worries.
It isn't long before exhaustion overwhelms him once more, his body's poor attempt at conserving energy to survive. Harry does not want to survive. He starts thinking of ways to kill himself before Voldemort returns, but it feels impossible to think around the throbbing in his head and the complete lack of function in his limbs.
His arms and legs may as well be shackled to the ground for all the good they'll do him. As he presses clumsy fingers over his lower ribs, he thinks a few of them may be cracked or broken.
Time passes in a nebulous way. The clanking of his chains whenever he moves makes him jump. Noises are too loud and the lack of light is its own form of torture. Hunger fades to pain. Pain fades back to hunger.
When Voldemort shows up, Harry refuses to call it a relief.
Voldemort does not speak. He drowns Harry in another blast of freezing cold water, then sets his clawed hands against Harry's abdomen, squeezing down uncomfortably. Harry's skin itches, then burns, then eases into blissful numbness. Voldemort has healed him. Not wholly, but enough to ensure his prisoner will not perish before his goal can be accomplished.
"Please," Harry says shakily. His voice is so gone that he can hardly understand himself. "Mercy. Kill me."
Voldemort kisses him instead. This time, Harry is so cold that the beast's lips feel almost warm.
The pattern continues. Harry exists on the brink of death for long days and longer nights. Voldemort brings water and keeps the cell clean. Voldemort kisses him goodbye.
Whenever Harry is awake enough to be cognizant of his surroundings, he suffers. His unwashed skin crawls constantly and he oscillates between the pain of his various untreated injuries and the discomfort of his worsening illness. When he is not awake, he suffers in other ways—nightmares of his parents' gruesome deaths, nightmares of Voldemort taking what he has promised to take.
Harry sees and hears Voldemort even when the beast is gone. Phantom voice and phantom touches. He thinks he may be going mad from the unending cold and his deteriorating physical state. He has not eaten more than a dry crust of bread since arriving and his hands are so frozen they no longer register touch as they should.
When Voldemort visits next, Harry is granted reprieve in the form of a cup of water. Harry drinks slowly, having learned that to drink too quickly will result in vomiting. His hand catches weakly on the sleeve of Voldemort's robe when the beast pulls away. His fingers are barely able to close.
Harry opens his mouth to speak, but all that emerges is a faint, rattling wheeze. His voice seems ruined beyond repair, lost to lack of water and hours spent crying and screaming himself hoarse in the empty blackness of his cell. Without light, the limits of his prison feel both boundless and suffocating at once.
Voldemort eyes him without any change of expression. The orb of light that follows him today is fainter. The weak illumination means there is less of Voldemort's monstrous appearance visible. Harry can pretend his captor is a normal man.
"Have you had enough?" Voldemort asks, the first words that Harry has heard in... in however long.
"Yes," Harry tries to say, "yes, please…" He will beg. He will beg for whatever respite Voldemort is willing to offer him.
Voldemort cants his head to one side. "I cannot quite hear you." He steps forward and stares down at Harry's weak, quivering form. A wave of his hand, and the passage of Harry's throat eases enough for proper speech.
"Please," Harry repeats.
"Please?" Voldemort echoes in a dry tone. "And what will you offer me in exchange for fulfilling your plea?"
Harry balks. What could he possibly offer Voldemort in exchange for clemency? Voldemort wants love, but love cannot be given when it does not exist.
"I will..." Harry swallows. "I will kiss you. Please."
Some food, a blanket, a light. Anything at all to ease his suffering. He has never known lack of food and warmth. He has never known lack of care and love. All his life, his parents have provided for him, and now he must provide for them in return.
If this makes him weak, then he accepts it. If he must carve away pieces of himself to feed to this beast, then he accepts it. He tells himself it is fine. After all, it is not love he offers now, but submission.
"I do not want your kiss," Voldemort says dismissively.
It should not hurt. It should not hurt.
But it does. It stings of rejection that Harry should not care for. He battles the urge to curl in on himself, to shrink away from his tormentor.
Voldemort does not want what Harry offers. He only wants that which he can take by force and Harry does not want to be taken.
After that day, Voldemort leaves his hands bound as well as his ankles. Robbed of even that mobility, Harry shuts down. He sits, motionless as a statue. He forgets to count the days, the visits of Voldemort that end the same way every time—the monster's mouth, irreverent and chaste, against his own.
Voldemort's kiss gradually becomes Harry's singular memory of affection. It lingers in every quiet moment, the only pleasant sensation that exists outside his desolation. It is a sick, sick comfort.
Harry does not love a beast, but he has begun to crave one.
Harry stirs. The flutter of breath passes over the threshold of his lower lip. Inhale, exhale. A trickle of warmth fans into the open air. Inhale, exhale.
He wakes into what feels like a dream. His next breath emerges slowly, cathartically. Damp tears slip down his face. The tears are also warm. His lungs are relaxed. Weightless. He has an urge to press his hands over them, to hold them in place and ensure they aren't about to fall out of his chest.
Harry's consciousness surfaces to dim gold lights. His hand twitches, rubs against soft fabric. His leg twitches, does the same thing. His body is comfortably cocooned by a heavy weight draped over his shoulder and back.
Anxiety curls in, spidery fingers latching onto his bones and gripping tight. Harry opens his eyes on instinct, flinches with the expectation of pain only to find none. But his vision is blurry, a wash of cool greys and dark blues.
The weight around his waist constricts. Harry jolts upright, or tries to, and notes the comfortable presence draped over his back had not been part of the bedding at all.
"No," Harry whispers, too horrified to twist around to look upon the beast pressed up behind him.
"No?" says Voldemort, a rich baritone that caresses the lobe of Harry's ear, soft as silk.
Harry succeeds in extracting himself. He tumbles off the bed in a twist of bedsheets, his legs caught in heavy loops of dark grey cotton. He catches a dizzy glimpse of the room—lavish and foreign.
"Did you—did we—" He cannot speak the words. Harry lifts a hand to his throat, to where his voice exists. He no longer sounds like he is dying, but that does not mean he isn't dying anyway.
Voldemort rises from the bed. His torso is nude, composed of broad shoulders and a sculpted chest that features prominent lower ribs. He looks like a marble god. Harry feels exposed under his gaze.
"Do you miss the screaming?" Voldemort asks, sly. "Do you miss the darkness? The cold?"
In light of this mockery, Harry finds his courage. "I will never love you," he snarls.
Voldemort laughs, his morbid humour at contrast with the cozy warmth of the bedroom. In this dream-like atmosphere, exultation distorts his abnormal features, transforming them from hideous to lively. His joy is contagious. Something in Harry longs to join it.
"Your death is mine," Voldemort drawls. "And so is your body, and so is your mind, and so is your heart. All of it mine, to do with as I wish. I ask again, Harry Potter. Do you miss the cold?"
"Fuck you."
Voldemort grins, a cheshire smile that gleams. He appears before Harry in a burst of faint smoke and seizes Harry by the jaw, forcing his head up. Sharp black claws pinch on either side of Harry's face until his mouth drops open.
It is not a fleeting kiss that Voldemort bestows upon him this time. Voldemort devours him, his pointed teeth digging into the flesh of Harry's lips, his forked tongue thick enough to choke on. Voldemort tastes like iron and death.
Harry whimpers as the room tilts, sliding away from him. His head spins and spins, his vision swirling with curls of oppressive, overwhelming darkness. He can't breathe. The sensation of falling takes over, tossing him into weightless, sightless limbo.
He wakes again with a violent start. The back of his head knocks into the stone wall of his prison cell. The dull throb of that is nothing compared to the shock of the freezing temperature. Harry shudders, feeling the cold burrow deep in his bones, and tries to scrub away the memory of Voldemort's mouth forced upon his.
It isn't real, he tells himself. It isn't real.
Voldemort does not visit him. Not with water or anything else. Harry languishes in solitude. He shuffles his ankle across the floor, dragging the chain along. The scraping noise is comforting in its own way. It passes the time.
He listens to the drip of water in the far corner of the cell. Snow melting through the crack of stone, or perhaps the natural dampness of the earth that exists high above him in the world of the living.
Harry's body aches for water but the constant ache is only that—an ache. He keeps his mind. He keeps his life. He lives. He lives and lives.
Voldemort does not visit him and Harry wonders if the moment in the bedroom had been a dream. If he lies in a hell of his own making, that deathless death of purgatory. Penance for his sins. Penance for submitting to a monster. For coveting the presence of said monster regardless of how it disgusts him.
Harry has no moisture to spare for tears, but that fact does not lessen his anguish. He hopes his parents think fondly of him in his absence. He hopes they do not come here searching for him. He hopes they will enjoy a measure of happiness together, free from the horrors of the beast.
Voldemort does not visit him.
Harry almost wishes he would.
The weight of Voldemort on top of him is crushing. Harry squirms, pants, stares wild eyed at an ocean of glittering ruby red.
"Are you lonely?" Voldemort croons, tracing the slope of Harry's nose with his forefinger.
Harry's lips form shapeless, soundless words. A heavy wave of warmth rushes into him. It leaves his skin flushed and tingling. He wants the sensation to linger, but—
"Are you lonely?" Voldemort repeats, hovering near, hot breath bringing life to Harry's frozen expression. His mouth ghosts the side of Harry's face, the forked tip of his tongue tracing the fat, sluggish tears that roll down Harry's cheeks.
Harry is lonely.
"Do you miss me?"
Harry misses—he misses—
Voldemort kisses him. Softly, gently. Flower petals against Harry's lips. Morning dew and sweet nectar.
Voldemort takes.
Harry, who is helpless on the bed with nowhere to go, lets him.
Harry's head lolls to one side. Sways, drops. He catches it, exerts the effort of holding it up, only to find gravity encourages his failure once more in the opposite direction. His arms are currently shackled to the ceiling, the rusted metal cuffs leaving him to hang like a limp puppet.
Is this real? He does not ask himself this question anymore. He cannot fathom the difference.
Does he love Voldemort?
The answer to this remains the same. No. No. Never.
Harry sobs. He wishes he could say that all he's known is the bitter cold that burns his skin, the agony of his wasted body that has forgotten how to breathe. He wishes to wallow in his suffering until he rots. Until his flesh festers and falls away, leaving naught but bones for the beast to pick at.
But he remembers light and warmth. He remembers the pleasure of touch. He remembers Voldemort.
Harry stares, eyes unseeing, into the darkness that holds him. He thinks that maybe Voldemort is staring back.
Voldemort kisses him. He wipes tears from the corner of Harry's eyes with bloody fingers. He drags fine silk sheets over Harry's bare body like they are black bandages.
"Have you had enough?" Voldemort asks.
Yes. Yes, Harry has had enough.
Voldemort returns him to hell with a knowing smile.
The world is not real. Harry no longer recognizes himself—either in his body or out of it. In his mind, out of his mind. With Voldemort and without.
Harry runs trembling fingers over his frozen knuckles. He examines the blackened skin of his hands with dull curiosity. The skin cracks and peels. The skin bleeds.
The ceiling in the far corner of the cell continues to drip until it doesn't. Harry wonders how long before summer is upon them, then discards the thought. Summer cannot touch this place. Sunlight will never warm him. There is nothing to be gained from the recollection other than misery.
Harry closes his eyes and imagines a blast of cold water against his face. Flowing into his mouth and nose, drowning him. Lungs burning desperately with need. But the water grows warm and the pressure grows firm. His lungs still burn, but it is Voldemort's lips that seal away the air.
Voldemort holds him close while they dance. His large hand sits clasped over Harry's waist as they sway in place. No music plays, but their feet keep pace.
The enormous ballroom revolves around them like an extravagant, glorious carousel. Harry's fingers, whole and unblemished, curl against the rich velvet of Voldemort's emerald cloak. His nerves sing with excitement when Voldemort appears, when the promise of comfort and pleasure is near.
"Do you enjoy dancing?" Voldemort asks.
"No," Harry says honestly.
Voldemort clicks his tongue. "Shame, that," he says, drawing back. Putting distance between them.
It is a distance that Harry had once craved. Now, all he feels is the pronounced taste of misery in the back of his throat as he tumbles into darkness for the millionth time.
"What do you want with me?" Harry pleads with the empty room. Tears sit on the reddened rims of his eyes. He feels as if he has not slept in years. "What do you want?"
He knows what Voldemort wants. He no longer thinks himself capable of giving it. Voldemort has broken Harry's capacity to love as surely as he has broken Harry's spirit.
The bed is soft. Harry is swept into Voldemort's arms like a newborn babe. He is wrapped in a silk sheet that fits neatly around his waist. Everything is warm, like he'd been dozing next to a roaring fire.
Voldemort caresses Harry's arm with the pad of his thumb. Harry is too numb and weary to resist. The beast's touch is welcome. Preferable to the perpetual nothing that awaits him.
"Do you love me?" Voldemort asks.
"Yes," Harry lies, for Voldemort is a beast who cannot love and Harry cannot love him. They are in this together now. They are here together.
Triumphant, Voldemort kisses him and Harry kisses him back.
Voldemort presses him down onto the bed and strips him of his sheet. Harry has never lain with another, could have never imagined his first time with a beast. When Voldemort traces the lines of his body with a clawed hand, he decides it doesn't matter.
The coupling is fast and rough. Harry clings with tense hands as Voldemort fucks him, driving into his body with a brutal frenzy that sets Harry's entire body aflame. He welcomes the pain because it is the searing kind, each sharp thrust a blistering heat that slides into him like a hot knife.
Harry is hardly the most active participant in his own defilement—the callous manner with which Voldemort handles his body leaves him shaking, his thin chest expanding in great, heaving gasps.
But his pleasure builds alongside the pain. Eventually, Harry comes, ecstasy scorching through him like an all-consuming fever. He quivers and cries, limbs loose and lifeless as Voldemort stills long enough to capture Harry's lips in a tender kiss.
The kiss is the only gentle deed between them. Voldemort sates himself on Harry's body for the rest of the night, several times over in different positions. Harry digs his nails into Voldemort's back, leaving red lines behind. He begs for more because the heat is so good. He wants more of it, he wants Voldemort to burn him from the inside out. Anything to chase out the cold.
In this dream-like section of the castle, he is healthy and untouched by darkness, but under Voldemort's possession, his flesh is rapidly transformed into a new type of canvas. Voldemort's hands crush his hips in an iron grip. Voldemort's teeth sink into the delicate skin of his throat and shoulders.
Harry bruises and bleeds for his beast, his flesh serving as sweeter sustenance than any false declaration of love. Voldemort is all he has now. His tormentor and his saviour.
"Do you love me?" Voldemort asks, again and again.
"Yes," Harry breathes, speaking in time with the beast's relentless thrusts, "yes, yes—oh, Gods—"
Voldemort spills inside of him, yet another warmth pulled into Harry's body. Then Voldemort withdraws and rolls aside.
Released from Voldemort's grasp, Harry sinks into the too-soft bed like he's floating away on a cloud. His muscles burn with exertion. He attempts to focus on the feeling to ground himself. His skin glistens with sweat and semen. The beast's seed trickles out of him.
"Is this a dream?" he asks.
"No," says Voldemort.
Thus reassured, Harry closes his eyes and goes to sleep.
Harry does not return to the prison. He does, however, return to the beast's arms. To the beast's bed.
Voldemort beds him almost nightly. Harry never tires, though whether that is the product of Voldemort's magic or his own endurance is questionable.
Every night, Voldemort asks him:
"Do you love me?"
And Harry's answer is always yes, yes, I love you.
The curse on the castle does not break, but Voldemort does not punish Harry for this shortcoming. They eat together. They dance together. Voldemort kisses him with sweetness and fucks him like a cheap whore.
Slowly, Harry replaces his memories of cold with memories of warmth. When he glances at his hands, he no longer catches flickers of numb, discoloured skin. He is not happy, but he is safe. He has convinced himself that he is safe.
Then, one bright summer morning, Harry wakes in the arms of a handsome man.
Harry gapes, struck speechless. The man who gazes upon him is stunningly beautiful. He has a face fit for royalty.
The man grins and settles himself between Harry's legs. "Good morning, love," he purrs.
Human hands seize Harry's hips and drag him down, spearing him on the blunt head of a thick cock. Harry cries out, hands scrabbling for purchase against this new, strange body, his fingers sliding over muscles he does not recognize.
Even in human form, Voldemort is not kind, but Harry is used to the violence of their lovemaking. He has grown to crave it. This is the only affection he receives, the only touch he is permitted. He loves every moment.
Voldemort takes what he wants and spends himself deep inside of Harry's body. Then he departs from the bed, leaving Harry aching and unfulfilled. He dresses with great care in fine clothes and examines his reflection in the mirror.
Harry shivers and draws the bedsheets tighter around himself. "Where are you going?"
"The curse is broken," Voldemort says, running his fingers through the dark curls on his head. "It is time to reclaim my kingdom."
Harry watches Voldemort fix cuff links to the wrists of his shirt. "And what about me?"
Voldemort's eyes flicker up to catch Harry's gaze in the mirror. "What about you?"
"I thought—" Harry's voice dies in his throat at the complete lack of expression on Voldemort's face. A human face that still belongs to a beast.
After long seconds of Harry's silence, Voldemort smiles. "Do you love me?" he asks.
"Yes," Harry whispers.
"Then you and I understand each other perfectly." Voldemort closes the jewelry box on the vanity and summons his formal robes from the dresser. "I shall return when I can. I expect you to be waiting here for me when I do."
After Voldemort departs, a lock slides into place, sealing Harry inside the room. Harry rises shakily to his feet, sheet tucked around his waist, and stumbles to the balcony. The first thing he notices is that the castle grounds are once again beautiful. The gardens are lush and the stone paths are free of cracks.
And there are people down below. There are people milling about. There are people in this castle and Harry—and Harry is—
Harry is alone.
Dread settles in the pit of his gut like a block of ice. Harry glances at the rumpled, unmade bed. Voldemort does not love him. Does not need him. It occurs to him why he feels so desolate. Not because Voldemort has left him, but because of how it happened.
Voldemort had not kissed him goodbye.
Harry shuts his eyes. He sinks to his knees. Sunlight streams in from the window but he feels so very cold. Voldemort doesn't need him.
Who could ever love a beast?
Anyone. Anyone at all. But a beast does not love, cannot love. Harry had foolishly hoped for otherwise.
After some time, Harry picks himself up off the floor and crawls back into the bed. The sheets and pillows are still warm. If he shuts his eyes, if he falls asleep, then perhaps he can convince himself that this was all a dream.
.
END.