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Harry jolted awake, gasping for air as his nails dug into the skin on his chest where his heart drummed under his fingers and threatened to collapse any minute. His hitching, shallow breaths, accompanied by small sparks flickering in front of his eyes, screamed of hyperventilation. Clasping his mouth with his hand he forced himself to breathe through his nose. When his vision cleared, he threw the covers off and looked around, trying to clear his head of screams of pain and torture that echoed in his ears. They were of course his own.
Weak moonlight streaming through the window licked the bumpy leather of Voldemort's favorite ostrich chair. The mirror reflected the tall four poster bed, decorated with chains and restraints. Closing his eyes, he sucked in a deep breath, then held the air in until his lungs burned, begging for the next breath, before slowly letting it out. When the pressure in his ears dropped a tad, he slapped the bed sheets with his palm, but instead of another body's warmth he only found the coolness of silk.
No wonder… He chewed on his lip as disappointment unfurled its black wings in his chest. Somewhere deep down he'd hoped to find Voldemort sleeping by his side so he could carefully press his palm to Voldemort's warm skin and know there was still someone by his side…. He needed to believe that Tom was still there. At moments like this, the warmth of Voldemort's body always calmed him down, but Voldemort wasn't there.
Over the past month, he'd grown used to nightmares. They had begun that first night Voldemort had tossed him on the bed and claimed him relentlessly…over and over again until he'd passed out from the pain. And then it had happened every day.
Harry rolled to his side, spreading his heavy limbs over the bed sheets. He didn't want to move, just lie there, resting on the silky surface that soothed his feverish skin with its blissful coolness. The window stood open, but no wind broke in; only his breathing disturbed the idle air. Harry rolled again, trying to bring some relief to his buzzing body that still burned with Voldemort's kisses.
Mind comatose saturated, not a single thought disturbed his emotional numbness, but it didn't last long. Blue silky sheets, absorbing his heat, quickly warmed up, and he had to roll again, seeking the comforting chill. Then again and again, until his face met Voldemort's pillow. His heavy scent, wafting in, disturbed his calmness. He shivered, then lifted his head, blinking away the drowsiness.
Heavy, hot air suffused the room. It weighed so much that a groan struggled to push out of Harry's throat. He sat up and put his feet down on the cool, stone floor, rubbed his eye with a lazy hand, then reached for the nearest chain that hung from the top, horizontal bar of the four-poster bed. Squeezing it, he tugged his body upright and stumbled to the bathroom.
Leaving the door ajar, he leaned against the marble sink that took half of the right wall and turned on the cold water. His hand found the resilient stream, and he closed his eyes for a moment, enjoying the heat seeping out of his fingertips down the drain. Bending over, he splashed some water on his chest and face; when he straightened, his gaze fell upon his reflection.
His hair had grown so long that he had to brush it off his face every now and then. Dark circles framed his eyes as if he hadn't sleep for ages, except, sleeping was all he did. Dirty red marks spotted his body. Clustering over his neck and chest, they trailed down his stomach and scattered about his hip bones. Harry still felt Voldemort's teeth, jumping from one spot to another only to leave a throbbing, darkening bruise, outlined by the imprints of his teeth. His hot hand landed on his chest as his fingers trailed the contour of one biting mark. Fresh and tender, it felt sore under his touch.
Harry bit his lip remembering Voldemort's mouth; his body instantly responded with inner heat. Trying to avoid the conditioned reaction, he shook his head and turned away from the deceptively frail mirror. Harry had been trying to break the mirrors for days, smashing them with his fists and wooden furniture, but he hadn't managed to even scratch the surface, let alone break it to pieces.
He made his way toward the bath tub at the end of the room; his sole almost seethed when he stepped on the chilly, dark emperador marble floor. He turned on the cold water, and evil, icy streams hit the top of his head and pierced his skin, forcing him to gasp for air. Every cell in his body shrieked in shock, and he enjoyed it. This was what he wanted…to feel pain, to feel alive again, to escape the saturated numbness that became a part of his boring life.
Slapping the beige tile wall with his palm, he let a breath out and watched water circle around his feet. The memories of the last night surfaced in front of his eyes. Voldemort had been rough. His fingers had crushed Harry's ribs as his mouth left one bite mark after another, painting his body in dirty red. The snake was always there…wrapped up tight around him.
Voldemort had been gentle. He soothed the disturbed skin with flicks of his tongue. His fingers, entwining with Harry's, pinned the his hands on either side of his face, preventing any movements as Voldemort again and again attacked his mouth with greedy, demanding kisses. He left so many possessive marks, as if he wanted to imprint into Harry's consciousness that he forever belonged to him.
Harry wasn't sure what he preferred more, the relentless attention of Voldemort's hands and mouth and his forceful requests to return the favour, or long, exhausting sex session after which Harry felt so sore he could barely get up without help. His hands mechanically grabbed the soap and lathered up his chest, washing off the sticky layer of perspiration.
Sparkling drops flew around when Harry shook his head and turned his back to the door. He leaned against the cold tile wall, crossing his arms on his chest as he thought about everything that he'd endured for the past month. The thought that Tom was forever dead grew stronger day by day and his will weakened. Bella and Fenrir were nothing but distant memories in his head now. He could barely remember their faces. What had Voldemort told them? Had he told him that he was dead? That made more sense. He wanted to die. Harry bumped his head against the tile wall and closed his eyes. It was going to be the same when Voldemort would return. There was no point to his existence anymore. All of this was utterly pointless. Icy lead substituted his blood and even simple blinking drained him of the last drops of energy.
He wanted to die…He just wanted to die…
Gathering his willpower, using the wall for support, he stumbled his way back into the bedroom. No thoughts of sex disturbed his exhausted mind when he smashed face down on the bed and closed his eyes.