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The Castle was beautiful, nestled in a series of gardens, with flower sprays and fountains, and meandering paths that offered startling views of the mountains. Its marble colonnades were simple and led inside to atriums and further gardens, and cooler spaces where the heat of summer was distant, like the outdoor hum of cicadas. The strolled through the paths that wound through the gardens, through the trees of orange and almond. Harry had yet to coax him into swimming in the lake which was by far his favorite pastime. There were marble steps down to the lake, and a beautiful spot for diving. He had gotten a silk awning set up by the lake for Harry, cool shade for when the sun was at its height because Harry had absolutely no regard for his personal well being.
For now it was the simple pleasure of Harry beside him, their hands linked, with only sunlight and fresh air about them. Here and there, they stopped, and everything was a delight: the leisure to kiss, to linger under the orange tree, the bits of bark that clung to Harry's trousers after he was pressed up against it. The gardens were full of small discoveries, from the shaded colonnades, to the cool waters of the fountain, to a series of balconied garden outlooks.
They stopped at one of them. Harry plucked a white flower from the low-hanging branches, and lifted his hand to tuck it into Voldemort's hair,
"Are you courting me?"
He felt foolish with happiness. This was still too new to him,
"I think we are way past that point."
Voldemort took a flower of his own. His pulse sped up, his fingers felt clumsy as he tucked it behind Harry's ear. The blush on Harry's cheeks was absolutely beautiful.
Harry looked away and stared at the flowerbed that seemed fairly new.
"I planted these a month ago. Do you like them?"
He stared at the vivid violet blossoms and nodded,
"I like them. I think they're beautiful…Just like you…"
Harry's fingers found his again, a small intimacy that had him overbrimming.
"I missed you. Half of the time, I didn't know what to do with myself… It's been so lonely."
He tugged on Harry's end and they came to an arched open garden,
"I missed you too, Love. Every day that I was away from you was pure agony."
Harry moved away, to a place where the shifting shade once again opened out into a view of the lake and the mountains. After a moment, Voldemort came to stand beside him. He could see the patterns of light and shadow on Harry's face.
The sun above them felt too exposing. Voldemort found that couldn't look away from Harry…Not even for a second. He had been so starved for the sight of him…So absolutely famished for his touch…his warmth…his love…Harry finally turned back around and smiled softly,
"You must be exhausted after your ride. Let me attend to you."
Bright and open, the baths were in sunny atriums, and the water was of different temperatures, warm in some, cool in others. Each bath was a sunken rectangle, with steps carved into the marble leading down into the water. A few of the more private baths were under shaded colonnades, others were open to the sky, and parts of the bowered gardens.
Attendants had already opened and readied the baths. Elegant pitchers, soft cloths and towels, soaps and oils, and the baths filled with exquisitely clear water. He was glad that these baths were not underground. Of course, Harry never used these. He preferred the lake. There were no attendants waiting for them. They were alone.
Harry stood in his boots and simple cotton trousers, a white-petalled flower in his dark raven hair. He was the perfect image of aristocracy, royalty in his every movement, in the tilt of his chin, in the sweep of his gaze. He might have been extending a signet ring to be kissed or tapping his boot with a riding crop. His gorgeous emerald eyes gave little away, his full lips that Voldemort had recently kissed were most often seen in that simple radiant smile. He had strolled into the baths as though they belonged to him. They did,
"I've never done this before so lead me through it."
He looked Harry from head to toe and spoke softly,
"Undress."
Harry undid his trousers and pulled them off so that they pooled at his feet. It was a shock, to have him stand naked. Harry had gained a healthy amount of weight and all the swimming he did kept him in perfect shape. He was so utterly gorgeous. Harry had not taken the flower from his hair or the boots off his feet,
"And then?"
He spoke,
"Test the heat of the water."
Harry took up a pitcher and let the stream of water fill it, then lifted it and deliberately poured it over himself, so that water splashed down over him, and over his still-booted feet.
"Harry…"
Harry asked softly,
"And then?"
He was wet, from his chest to his toes, though the slight steam from the closest of the pools was a sheen that seemed to wet his lashes and the petals of the flower behind his ear. The heat from the baths infused the air,
"Undress me."
Harry came forward,
"Like this?"
They stood under one of the colonnades, in light shade, close to the open, sunny place where steps led down to the largest of the outdoor baths.
Voldemort nodded once. Harry was very close. He unlaced his shirt and pulled it over his head with practiced ease. Harry, then attended to his pants and pulled them down over his thighs, past his knees and then nudged him slightly so that he could step out of them.
Harry stood still, awaiting the next instruction and he spoke through numb lips,
"Kneel for me."
Deliberately, Harry went to his knees. All the breath left Voldemort. The rise and fall of Harry's chest was shallow. His lips were parted, but he didn't speak. His body was relaxed as if kneeling for him was the most natural thing to do. It should be the other way around. He should be worshipping Harry after everything he'd done for him. Harry stared pointedly at his feet and he reluctantly extended his foot.
His heart was pounding. Harry unlaced his boot and drew it off…first one, then the other. Beside him was the pitcher, oils, and a sponge.
Slowly, he began to wash Voldemort's foot. It was the action of a bath attendant. Something Harry shouldn't be doing for him but Harry seemed to enjoying every second of it.
Voldemort could see the faint flush that heat and steam gave to Harry's cheeks. He could see the camber of his lashes. He could see each delicate petal of the white flower in his hair.
The water was hot. It streamed from the sponge as Harry dipped it, then lifted it, and ran it down Voldemort's legs, leaving them clean and wet. Heel, sole and ankle were lathered. Then back up his calf, his shin. Harry knelt up to soap behind Voldemort's knee, then the long muscles of his left thigh. He rubbed each surface to a lather, then rinsed it.
Another tilt of the pitcher: water splashed the marble, and splashed Harry's thighs where he knelt, legs slightly apart. It wasn't finished. Harry was rising.
Washing Voldemort's hands first, Harry used only fingers, no sponge, massaging thumbs across Voldemort's knuckles, his thumb and fingers working a lather between Voldemort's. Voldemort's arms were lifted, soaped, the curve of his bicep, the crook of his elbow.
Harry didn't look up into Voldemort's eyes as he soaped Voldemort's upper thighs and then between his legs, where his cock hung part-roused, feeling thick and heavy as it was pushed around by the sponge. Then Harry raised the pitcher and poured water all the way down Voldemort's body.
A stream of heat. He knew what was coming. His whole body felt like it was changing, even before Harry moved to his back.
Silence; he was too aware of his own breathing. Harry was behind him. He couldn't see him but knew he was there. He felt exposed, vulnerable as if blindfolded: to be seen while unseeing. It was an effort, not to turn his head. Neither of them spoke.
He wondered what Harry was seeing. He wondered what Harry was remembering, if it had happened in Harry's mind the same way it had happened in his own. Water hit the marble as Harry squeezed the sponge. He experienced it physically, the sound loud, a crack.
He shuddered when it touched him, because it was so warm, and gentle. He felt the heat of the water and the soft touch of the sponge, softer than he had imagined, so that a second shudder, a tremor, passed through him.
Nothing could wash away the past, but this took them both there, touching a painful truth, acknowledging it.
It was gentler between his shoulders than it had been against his chest. Flesh and self were linked. The cleansing was slow, attentive, drizzling water, then soaping his skin. It was healing something he hadn't known needed to be healed. Like breathing, it was necessary, even as the tenderness of it was too much, gentleness like he'd never known. Harry finally spoke,
"Bow your head."
He closed his eyes. Water streamed over him. His hair and face were wet. This was usually done seated, on the long bench by the sluice with the attendant standing behind…he didn't say it, as Harry reached up to push soap into his hair, standing in front. Long fingers kneaded a lather from his temples to the back of his head, and the massaging of his scalp felt like comfort.
A fresh scoop of the pitcher: rinsed, the warm water engulfing him, he looked up at Harry through wet eyelashes, and knew that everything was in his eyes.
It was in Harry's too. Harry, who looked as he had never looked, his body wet, where he'd been splashed, the dark tendrils of his hair wet too,
"What's next?"
He took Harry's wrists in his hands gently and spoke,
"I want to make love to you."
Harry flushed scarlet and it was endearing,
"Can I wash myself first?"
He nodded,
"You can wash while I soak."
The water in the soaking bath was hot, made for unknotting muscles, and relaxation. It was unexpectedly hot, considering that the day was hot, and that this bath was open-air, with sunlight glinting across its surface. Voldemort descended the six steps, and waded, at waist height, to the opposite edge where he turned and sat on the submerged ledge, his shoulders out of the water, the edge of the bath at his back.
He had wanted to consummate this closeness, to bring their bodies together while they were both wide open. But the water felt good too. And Harry was an education in the pleasure of delay, of suspension and recommencement. Voldemort watched him.
After a moment, Harry picked up the pitcher and used the last of the water to wash himself. He just cleaned himself, each motion useful; then rinsed, water sluicing briefly over his body. How little he looked like an attendant, and how much he looked like himself, carrying out his ordinary routine, was its own form of enjoyment, an easy access to Harry's private self.
Then Harry came forward. The flower was still in his hair. He was still wearing the boots. Voldemort had a brief vision that Harry was going to descend into the soaking bath wearing them, but Harry stopped at the shaded edge.
He didn't get in. He folded himself on the side, in a relaxed, elegant posture, one knee drawn up, his weight resting on one hand. He trailed the fingertips of the other in the water,
"It's hot."
He didn't clarify whether he meant the water, the sun, or the marble. He was slightly flushed even from the steam. If he came into the pool he'd be cooked. In all other ways, he looked cool, his long white thighs, his elegant recline, his male torso with its pink nipples, his cock, part-visible in that posture.
Voldemort wanted to push off the side; if this were the lake, he would swim three strong strokes to push himself out of the water alongside Harry. He'd run a proprietary hand over Harry's body, over his thighs, his flank and chest. He imagined himself coming up dripping out of the baths to take Harry there on the marble,
"I'm glad you're finally back."
Harry's voice wound lazily. He made absolutely no effort to get up. The words were at odds with his aristocratic pose, draped all over the marble.
Fingers trailing in the water. He closed his eyes and let himself sink a little deeper into the water. The past played in front of his eyes. All the cruel treatment, he'd dealt Harry. All the pain he'd caused him. He remembered the time when this castle was nothing but dust just like his insides and how Harry had revived them both. None of this would exist if Harry hadn't existed. He wouldn't exist.
The sunlight was brighter than he expected when he opened his eyes, sparkling across the water. Harry was still sitting behind the shade line but he knew he was thinking back to the same time. Harry shook his head and finally spoke,
"Come out."
He emerged hotter than steam, overheated like one boiled, his pale skin turned ruddy by the water. Harry filled the pitcher from the secondary sluice, approached, and shifted his grip. Voldemort threw up his arms instinctively.
"No, Harry, that's cold, it's…"
Gasping….Shock of the frozen water. Ice cold on superheated skin, like plunging into a river, a too-sudden revitalisation. Instinct propelled him to grab Harry in revenge, to drag him forward, their bodies colliding.
Cool body plastering against hot. Harry was unexpectedly laughing, his skin warm as sunlight. The struggle took them both to the slippery marble.
It was unthinking to get on top, to pin Harry with a wrestler's move. Voldemort progressed through three simple positions in his enjoyment of that sport before he realised that Harry was responding to his wrestling holds with counters.
"What's this? You've been learning?"
Harry moved,
"Yeah…How am I doing?"
"Wrestling is like chess."
Harry moved, he countered. Harry moved, he countered. Beneath him, he felt Harry try out all the variations that he knew, a beginner's set, but well executed. The part of Voldemort's mind that liked wrestling above all sports took note, appreciatively, of Harry's form. But he was a novice: Voldemort countered him again easily, wise enough to keep his own hold strong and ready, even when he had Harry fully pinned. And then he thought about it,
"Who is teaching you?"
Harry smirked,
"Fenrir taught me some before leaving and he left the rest to Silas. He's a surprisingly good teacher."
Then you'll never learn effectively. Instead, he found himself frowning, saying,
"I'm better than Silas."
He wasn't sure why that returned him Harry's laughter, but it did, soft and breathless, saying,
"I know. You have vanquished me. Let me up."
Voldemort stood, held out his hand and hoisted. Harry snagged up one of the soft towels and draped Voldemort's head in it. Engulfed, Voldemort let his hair be rubbed about, then let Harry dry the rest of him, the softness of the towel against his skin as unexpectedly tender as any touch Harry had offered him. It wasn't sensual, it was coddling, comforting, and so unlooked for that it made him feel strange, lucky, part of the summer scents, the sunlight and wonder of this place.
"The truth is you're very sweet."
He took Harry's fingers in a tangle of towel. He dumped a towel over Harry's head before he could answer, and enjoyed watching Harry emerge from it with his hair mussed.
Harry stepped back. To dry himself, he used the same unconcerned motions with which he'd washed himself: he swiped the towel over his torso, under his arms, between his legs. Before he did any of this, he unhooked the flower from his hair and bent to unlace his boots. Leave them on, Voldemort wanted to say. He liked the piquant way they drew attention to Harry's nudity.
Harry began to look around for a wrap to wear, but Voldemort took his hand instead,
"We don't need one. Come on."
Harry ducked his head and shook it,
"There are servants around…I don't…"
He felt a hint of possessive jealousy when he imagined anyone seeing Harry in this state. He snapped his fingers and conjured a robe for Harry and himself. They stepped back into open sunlight and Harry let out a breathless laugh, as Voldemort tugged him towards the eastern entrance, hands linked. They made their way through the corridors. Here they weren't alone: the servants who had absented themselves from the baths were waiting for any sign they were needed, and guards stood on ceremonial duty.
Voldemort would have walked through without noticing them, but he could feel Harry's over-awareness of each person they passed.
Entering the royal chambers, the view was of gauzy white, and of marble and sky, the wide, graceful interior opening out onto a balcony. Harry walked right out onto it and allowed the robe to drop. Leaning his naked body against the marble balustrade and closing his eyes with the sun full on his face. He let out a breath that was pure blissful happiness.
Voldemort came out and fitted himself lazily alongside Harry, enjoying the sunlight too, and the air, that winked in an expanse of blue. Harry's eyes opened. Voldemort felt breathless, as he trailed a touch down Harry's arm. Harry turned in towards the touch and they kissed just as he'd imagined, Harry's arm hooked around his neck. The simple intimacy from the baths changed to something else, at the feel of Harry naked against him, skin to skin.
The kiss deepened, Harry's hand in Voldemort's damp hair. Half hard since the baths, it didn't take long to rouse fully, but what made the blood beat against the inside of his skin was feeling Harry rousing against him in turn, as his hands slid slowly over Harry's body.
His own cock, hard and heavy, was rubbing deliciously between them and the feel of it was as good as the feel of the sunlight on his skin. He wanted to keep going, his body thrusting slowly to please himself, and to please Harry, who liked it slow and lazy like this. A push, a few deliberate steps, and they were back in the shade. He felt the brush of gauze hangings, the cool stone of the wall at his back. His hands slid down past the small of Harry's back, palming the curves there. The features of the room became a series of stations on the way to their destination, the journey neither urgent nor hurried. A period of separation when Harry poured a cup of water and drank from it, Voldemort watching with his shoulders against the opposite wall. A long interval where Voldemort braced a palm against stone and kissed Harry's sensitive neck. Then he turned Harry so that he was belly to the wall, and kissed his neck again, from behind.
Intentionally, he did not drive towards a conclusion, but simply let himself explore, the softest kisses to Harry's neck, sliding his palms over Harry's chest, slowly over the nipples, which were sensitive and which, later, he would take into his mouth. He liked the feel of Harry's back against his torso, the dip of Harry's head. Harry leaned into the gentlest touch as though starved. He stroked along Harry's flank, slow, slower. Again.
"Tom…I…"
Caught up in the way that Harry's skin responded to him, he had missed the quickening pulse, the subtle signs of a body's approach to its brink. He slowed further.
Harry made a soft sound, and Voldemort slid his hand up the inside of Harry's thigh, stopping right at the juncture, thumbing the join between thigh and torso as he kissed Harry's neck again, slowly. Harry groaned, his forehead touched the stone.
His desire to explore Harry and to enjoy this pleasure was transforming into a desire to mount, to be inside him, and to claim him this way, slow, their breaths flickering into one another's mouths as they kissed. Harry was pushing back against him rhythmically now. Voldemort's cock was sliding continually over the place where he wanted it.
Voldemort turned Harry and kissed him, Harry's back against the wall, the kiss like consummation, hard and deep. Harry made that slight sound again, right into Voldemort's mouth.
When they broke apart again it was to look at each other with uneven breaths, and it already felt like he was inside,
"I want you."
He watched the flush rise up over Harry's skin.
"On the balcony?"
He was leaned against the wall. Voldemort had taken a step back,
"We're not quite on the balcony."
Harry closed his eyes,
"I've lost track of where we are."
He had returned into Harry's physical space, irresistibly. He drew closer to him and whispered softly into Harry's ear,
"I want do it slowly, the way you like."
Harry melted against the wall and sighed,
"Yes."
The number of times that they had made love were still finite enough that Voldemort could remember each one of them. None of them had been like this, half sprawled on the bed looking up at Harry. Harry's hands smoothed over his chest, up to his neck, then down over the planes of his torso, his abdomen. In the streaked sunlight, they were kissing. He loved the way that Harry kissed, as if Voldemort was the only person that he had ever kissed or would ever want to.
The openness from the baths lingered. Voldemort could hear his soft exhalations of breath; once or twice, a sound passed his lips that he didn't seem to be aware of. Time unslid the knot of any last ribbon of tension, letting it slip, letting him go further and further into his own pleasure.
Their bodies tangled together, touches blending and blurring. Voldemort gave himself over to the feeling of Harry in his arms. It was an age before he put his hand between Harry's legs, and felt his legs part.
When he finally slid inside, it felt like time had stopped in the small, intimate space between them, after a sweet forever of deep kisses, of opening Harry up with oiled fingers. He didn't move but stayed where he was, in breathless silence. Everything felt connected, open. Their movements were more like nudges than thrusts, their bodies pushing together without the long, sliding separation of withdrawal.
He could feel Harry drawing closer and closer to his climax, not, as it was sometimes, like he was pushing past the gnarl of his own barriers, but hotly, inevitably. The thrust were longer now, Voldemort's body moving to seek out its own gratification.
He heard a choked off sound as Harry dissolved under him, and Voldemort was lost to the feel of it, the hot, liquid pleasure of claiming Harry as his, the closeness, near as a heartbeat. His own body pulsed and flared, an interval of flooding pleasure, and it almost didn't seem to end but to transform into the sweet, heavy feel of his limbs entangled with Harry's, pleasure still between them, the throbs of it ebbing.
Harry didn't immediately leap up to clean himself off, but stayed, their bodies collapsed onto one another, the sounds of summer coming in from outside.
He reached out and moved a curl of hair from Harry's face.
'Tomorrow, let's go riding,'
Thinking of the gift he had already waiting in the stables, a proud five-year-old with a curved neck and a waterfall of mane. He'd lead her out and give her to Harry, and they'd ride out through fields of wildflowers, the air sweet with summer. When they reached a clearing, Voldemort would draw their horses together, lean over and kiss him.
Before Harry could answer, there was an unmistakable knock on the door.
The sound made Voldemort groan, because he knew what Harry was going to do,
"What?"
Called Harry, pushing himself up on an elbow. The servant who entered was no one Voldemort knew, and showed a remarkable lack of reaction to Harry with the marks of lovemaking still on him,
"Your Highness, you asked to be notified when the King's retinue reached the Castle. I'm here to inform you that it has finally reached."
A grin curved Harry's lips,
"Thank you, I can be said to be faintly aware of that."
Voldemort started laughing. He lifted his head and said,
"Bring refreshments, something cool to drink. And if the King's retinue really has arrived, tell his squires that the King's armour is in the east garden."
The servant nodded,
"Yes, My Lord."
Harry closed his eyes and snuggled close to him,
"We can go riding if I can move tomorrow."
Voldemort spoke,
"All right."
Harry buried his face in Voldemort's chest and spoke,
"You know Bella and Fenrir are going to be here any second."
He ran his hand over Harry's back and spoke,
"I'll have a servant inform them that you're resting. I'm sure they can wait a few more hours to see you and dote all over you."
Harry nodded sleepily and spoke,
"That sounds good."
It only took a minute for Harry to fall asleep when he had, he couldn't help but thank the stars above for blessing him with someone as pure and innocent as Harry.