(TW: Sexual scene.)
Scarlet, In This Moment
...You're everything I want
And I am everything you need
This night is cutting into me
You tie me down, you watch me bleed
And we risk everything
Tonight
I, I am the misery you crave
And you, you are my faithful enemy
This hunger seems to feed on me
Our secrets and our dying
Risk everything
They can never know just what we've done
And I can never know that what we've done
They will never know all the blood we've shed
The spotted course we've led until the bitter end
They can never know just what we've done
Nothing good will come of this
I'm screaming out with my untaken breath
I'll be yours until my dying day
When Harry didn't fall, he was pushed over. They'd reappeared outside the ruin of a large manor he'd never seen before.
"I lost nothing," the Dark Lord repeated as he pulled off the invisibility cloak—shrunk it to fit in his pocket—as though he hadn't dissected the conversation with Disapparation.
Harry laughed as he got off the ground. Bed Sheet made grumpy Lethifold noises at the indignity.
"Sure. And the sky is often green, my middle name is Hubert, and all the dolphins have grown legs to overthrow the Muggle governments," He said, "If I had of said 'please' I'd bet all I have we'd be standing here talking about how bad I lost." He put his hands in his pockets and pretended to be pensive, watching the skeletal, dark manor in the distance, "'Cause you lost pretty bad."
'Good. Do not let him forget,' Tom thought.
Voldemort drew his wand, and so did Harry, a beat slower though he'd been expecting it. The Dark Lord didn't curse him, instead, he was casting wordlessly, walking away as if Harry hadn't said what he'd said. He asked Bed Sheet off his shoulders, certain that either way the morning went, it was a good idea.
As he drew closer to the crumbled manor—Lethifold trailing after him, popping like raindrops on a lake—faintly blue outlines were streaming from the Dark Lord's wand, tracing the building and giving a mediocre projection of a repaired structure.
"What are you doing?" Harry asked. As soon as the words left his mouth, he expected a sarcastic answer.
"Replaying the events of Monday night," he said absently, turning to watch three branches of magic form the basic outlines of people not far from where they'd Apparated in.
He knew who one of them was right away, obvious despite the shaky incompleteness of the image. Mad-Eye Moody.
The other two were much harder, under hooded cloaks. No discernible colour. Harry got closer, tried to peek under the stranger's hoods, and found it impossible. One was shorter than the other, and when they began walking towards the space where Harry assumed the wards had been, Harry decided the shorter one was Tonks. Her gait was unmistakable, her hands roughly recognisable when she raised her wand.
"Do you recognise them?" The Dark Lord asked, his voice so close Harry was nearly startled.
He'd known on a subconscious level that Voldemort was behind him, the way they were bound always giving him an indication of where he stood when he was nearby. Not consciously enough to keep his eyes from bugging when he felt the Dark Lord's breath on the back of his neck.
"…That one's Mad-Eye. Obviously," He cleared his throat when he realised his voice was crumbling, "That one is Tonks. Nymphadora. I don't know who that is. Only three of them?" He turned to face the manor again.
Five stories tall, well-lit on Monday night, as far as he could tell without colour. Not as wide as the Malfoy Manor, but impressive nonetheless. He had to assume it held more than three people.
"The attacks were thirty minutes apart," Voldemort said, closer still.
Harry had turned back to the stranger and watched him—undeniably a man, tall and wide in the chest—ignoring the way he could lean back the tiniest fraction and feel the Dark Lord there.
"…Not at the same time?" Harry muttered.
"No."
He did lean into him then, pulled in by a force like gravity, found Voldemort barely centimetres away. Arms twined around Harry's waist and tight instantly, nearly stumbling him.
He watched the stranger burst into threads of magic, an angry, chaotic ball of strands whaling on the wards. As had been suggested, they fell quickly. The way Harry's heart was belting a static drumbeat in his head had nothing to do with what he was spectating.
The Dark Lord had gone still, hands locked in the fabric of Harry's robes, "Obscurial?"
"Certainly appears that way," Tom said.
Harry exhaled like he was being squashed. Partially because he sort of was, physically. Mostly, it was the bizarre reality of Voldemort resting his chin on his shoulder while Tom spoke with his mouth.
"…But don't they… Die?" Harry asked. "Before they're- they're adults, I mean."
The Dark Lord had turned him on the spot to watch the projection of the manor crumble under chaos, and Harry hadn't even felt it, far more aware of the way Voldemort's mouth was ghosting his neck when he whispered, "Yes."
Tom was more in control of his limbs than he was, keeping him standing while the Dark Lord's hands wandered lower.
"Anyone could find us here." Tom said it with more amusement than threat, "You, unmasked, wrapped around the Boy Who Lived like you never learned to swim." He didn't let Voldemort answer, took both of his arms, threw him onto his back, and straddled him on a stranger's lawn. "Qui appartient à qui."
Tom had apparently said something funny; the Dark Lord laughed instead of resisting. Harry couldn't get past the fact that he was the one doing the straddling.
"As though it is not obvious," Voldemort said, throwing Harry off with a wandless Bombarda, then quickly dragged him to his feet—winded and breathless with a sore tailbone.
"Careful, Bed Sheet will eat you," he rasped. He yanked himself free of the Dark Lord's grip and held his wand in his pocket.
Harry swore he heard him mutter something about not being afraid of a bed sheet, but he moved toward the manor and away from the Lethifold regardless.
It seemed as though Tonks and Mad-Eye were only present to watch; both of their misty outlines stood witnessing the building stripped to its bones.
Harry reached the Dark Lord—close to the manor with his wand drawn, not raised, his hair a mess from being thrown to the ground.
By then the projection of the manor matched its current state, a light-blue highlight around the frame. The stranger moved to rejoin Tonks and Mad-Eye. No resistance to him whatsoever from within that Harry had seen. While Harry watched the three outlines walk remarkably calmly away, the Dark Lord began repairing the manor, signalled by the sound of debris picked up off the ground in a whirl of magic, suddenly loud in the early morning clearing.
When it was rebuilt, mere minutes later, Harry was being dragged in by the scruff of his robes—the Dark Lord walking backwards—the door slammed shut behind them with magic, and the portraits in the entry hallway covered with summoned black fabric.
"…Now what are we doing?" He was pulled into the first room they came across, the portraits within blasted to bits rather than obscured, raining frame and painted parchment on the dark tiled floor.
"Take off your clothes," Voldemort said, and he choked while Tom snorted a laugh.
"What? Now? Here?" Harry didn't need an answer, his face emphatically said 'Yes.'
He took in the dimly lit room and the Dark Lord's demeanour. Found a red chaise lounge and a dare. He let out a shaky breath, hands only shaking slightly as he dropped his outer robes to the floor. He refused to let go of Voldemort's gaze. He was pleased to see a tiny sliver of fear on his face when he unbuttoned his shirt, though he was never truly sure of the origin.
"…You too," Harry said, and the Dark Lord smirked and closed the distance in a blink to take over the unbuttoning.
His brain was fogged almost immediately, thoughts torn to ribbons when Voldemort's fingers met skin. If he could have strung a sentence together in his head, he might have expressed his irritation at being the only one stripped in a strange room. Instead, he scrunched his nose when his hands were batted away from the Dark Lord's chest.
Despite swatting Harry repeatedly, the Dark Lord had him nearly naked in seconds; his pants barely hung on his hips when he latched onto Voldemort's neck. Harry bit down as hard as his jaw let him, the bliss already blooming and receding like fireworks, rippling through him and fading as the Dark Lord's wandering hands began to heat.
Harry couldn't get his clothes off or orient himself in the room with his face buried in Voldemort's robes, biting down and flicking his tongue—eyes rolling shut, useless anyway—huffing the scent of cedar as though it were the source of the blooming high, seeping down his throat and along his chest, hips, and back, the Dark Lord digging his fingertips in hard enough to bruise, hot enough to burn. Voldemort was muttering something, and though his mouth was close to Harry's head, he couldn't make out the words, no more than pleasant vibrations that intensified the full body chills.
He could vaguely hear himself, as well, muffled and distant moaning. His hips rocked without his input, automatic, like breathing—ironically, the only thing he was doing manually, struggling to release breath. The curse blossomed from his skin in the same way—without input. Sharpness rushed through him in waves.
The Dark Lord was moaning with him, always a visceral victory whenever Harry achieved it, boiling the hunger in his middle. He kicked his boots and socks off, assumed his pants were next, no longer caring that Voldemort wouldn't relent and take his damn clothes off. He took the next safest bet and went for the lower buttons. He wasn't stopped.
His jaw was aching, but he didn't let go, liked the way the warmth felt on his tongue. He could taste blood, his legs unsteady. One hand twisted up in the Dark Lord's robes to stay standing; the other finished the buttons and snaked under the fabric to grip Voldemort's cock. Teeth found Harry's collarbone and he twisted his fingers in the Dark Lord's hair in return, forcing him to bite harder as dizzied, popping bright lights of bliss rang in Harry's head.
The darkness streaming from his fingers was intentional, drawing out exquisite sounds as he wrapped it around Voldemort's cock—warm, twitching, rock-solid in his hand, skin soft like velvet—blurred the room and everything outside it into nothing, formless even with his eyes closed, certain if he opened them that was what he'd find—everything deleted. No matter or sound beyond the Dark Lord. He could feel Voldemort's heartbeat in his mouth and in the palm of his hand, pounding a beat every bit as rapid as his own.
He felt like he fell for five minutes when he was dropped onto the lounge, contact not broken—practically sacred, if you asked Harry at that moment—his pants lost at some point, his hand forcefully removed from Voldemort's cock, the only warning he received. An instant later inside him, too much momentarily, yelping as the fullness made his jaw release. The Dark Lord didn't let go, teeth cutting deeper into Harry's collarbone.
Harry was the first to move—though not by much—bliss blooming inside and out, the curse pulsing in time with Voldemort's hips. The giddiness of winning combined with the overwhelming range of pleasure, the way Tom's vindictive lust and intrigued jealously bled into his head, and the noises the Dark Lord was making—vibrating moans that hummed up through Harry's throat, each sound hard-won and divine—had his consciousness streaming out of his mouth, interspersed with gasped laughter, "Fuck that feels so good. This is my new favourite thing. You lost so bad-"
The Dark Lord's fingers were briefly in his mouth, had gagged and stunned him into silence. Though not for long. Tom slipped Harry's left hand between them and gripped his cock, bringing out more rushed, whimpered words that never touched his logic.
"Don't feel bad. I thought it was—really—fucking—hot—actually-" The second time Harry was shocked quiet; it was because of his face.
Hovering inches above him, blood on his lips, fire in his eyes and dancing on his cheeks, shimmering on his mouth—the same reverent hunger he'd seen before, violently beautiful. Disgust, rage, and confusion just underneath, somehow just as stunning—rocking his hips slightly slower, one hand creeping around Harry's throat, probably to keep him from speaking.
It wasn't very effective, his thoughts were free from his lips before they reached his brain, a strange backwards kamikaze, uncontrollable as the pleasure built to a blinding degree. "You're fucking—stunning. Can't—breathe—Iwannadothisallthetime-" He'd arched his back to escape both his grip and his face, unsuccessful in either.
He found he was right; the room and the world beyond it were gone. Only the look in Voldemort's eyes existed. His cock and his hands and the fabric of his robes and the smell of him—overwhelming.
Harry couldn't look at him for long, rocked into silence when he came, fingers numb and tangled in fabric, sharp and burning mingled with blissful pleasure. Oxygen deprivation deepened every sensation to the point he had to struggle free. His mind and nerve endings were so scrambled he couldn't take another second of it.
And then it was instantly, excruciatingly awkward.
Harry reached for his cloak with the curse and dragged it to himself, dug his wand out of the pocket while the Dark Lord scrambled away—cleaned himself wandlessly and yanked his pants up as though nothing had happened.
He figured, with a blazing red face, neck, and chest, that it was at least part of why Voldemort refused to get undressed. Harry was still naked, something he was desperate to correct, Tom moving his shaking limbs better than he could. He felt like he'd been plunged into an ice bath.
He used the Snakewood wand to clean himself and summoned the rest of his clothes, pants on rapidly, eyes wide and glued to the floor. He was covered in bruises and burns, the bite on his collarbone bleeding enough to speckle through his shirt as soon as it touched his shoulders.
'Next time, don't let me stop biting him. Why can't I shut up?' Harry thought, buttoning his shirt wrong but too desperate to get it on to correct it.
'I have said before that you genuinely do not think before you speak. Regardless, it is better if you are not silent.'
'Better if I do that? Embarrassing.'
He noticed when he finally looked up—curiosity getting the better of him as he threw his robes back on—that Voldemort had cleaned but not healed the deep bite on his neck. His face was schooled but his chest was heaving, staring intensely at the far wall while Harry dressed. He didn't figure it was any kind of dignity-preserving measure on the Dark Lord's part. More of an effort to compartmentalise the whole thing.
"Um." Harry coughed, then decided to fix his buttons, a distraction from how the mark he'd left made him feel, "…An Obscurial?"
"Shut up." It wasn't a strong command, more of a bewildered request.
"Turns out I can't," Harry muttered.
He was Disapparated instead of answered.
He had to lock his knees to keep them from buckling, shockwaves vibrating through him, limbs weak. They reappeared outside another manor, large oak trees lining a pristine drive that connected to a ruined white mansion.
Harry cleared his throat, and the Dark Lord sighed as though it was the millionth time he'd done it, a cloud of steam from his nose in the freezing morning air, the sun just rising.
"I'm sure you're real busy and all," he said despite how Voldemort tensed, "But I wouldn't mind a break."
He was casting and walking anyway, summoning the light blue recollections of Tonks, Mad-Eye, and the cloaked stranger.
"Wouldn't mind a shower," Harry was ignored or unheard. "Why would they bring just three? I mean, I know Moody is dangerous, and so is an Obscurial, but… Three?"
"…Stealth, opportunity, secrecy, any number of reasons," the Dark Lord apparently heard that part, "I do not expect them to do it again."
"Why not?" He followed Voldemort, who was trailing after the still remarkably casual Order members.
"They know we know. There is no longer an advantage. I cannot decide if this is simply a threat or if they were after something in particular."
Harry watched the stranger disassemble, whipping silver-blue tentacles that seemed to have no goal outside destruction, ripping through the wards like thin glass. "Looks like they want to break stuff."
"Fear breeds violence."
He wanted to say, 'Yeah, no shit?' But he didn't. Instead, "You said their numbers are growing?"
The Dark Lord had stopped to watch the projection fall—silent, though Harry knew it would not have been so in the true moment. He had stopped beside Voldemort, eyes flicking to his messed hair, then to his neck, then back to the manor on a loop.
He could imagine the sounds of the glass shattering, beams cracking and splitting as the roof was torn free—as easily as a lid from a cardboard box. He almost heard the screaming within, though he knew he couldn't, not really, his mind supplying sound where it should have been: a silent movie.
"As long as I live and lead, there will be those who vehemently disagree."
Harry breathed out at the Parseltongue, a cloud of breath steadily streaming from his mouth and lit orange-blue by the light of the sun and the magic. "Yeah. Probably all the murder?"
"Frowned upon," Voldemort agreed.
"Where's Nagini? I thought she would have been interested in an Obscurial," Harry said, remembering as he said it that he wasn't sure if the Dark Lord knew he knew anything about it.
"Precisely the reason I did not bring her. She has told you?" There was jealousy and warning in his voice, but Harry breezed past it.
"Yeah. Aberforth's son. She said he died, though?"
"Believed dead soon after Grindelwald was defeated, certainly dead by now. And yet." He gestured at the manor and scowled.
"You think it's him?"
"Impossible, but I can think of no other Obscurial that mind find themselves under a Dumbledore's thumb. Certainly improbable that another with such magic could make it to adulthood."
"How, though?" Harry asked.
The manor had fallen in the meantime.
"A good question. You will not discuss it with her," his tone was final.
So, he switched topics, "Since you lost and all, does that mean I can have my friends back? 'Cause that was just you trying to win, yeah?"
Harry didn't expect an affirmative; he knew the Dark Lord better than that. He simply wanted to hammer it in again. That the Dark Lord was the clear loser.
"I knew you would be immediately insufferable."
"Was I sufferable beforehand?" Harry wondered, ignored, "You did it anyway."
Instead of stepping foot near the mansion, he was Disapparated a third time, after Voldemort had pulled up his hood and summoned his mask.