(TW & AN : Sexual scene. I am always wanting songs keep em coming x)
Black Honey, Thrice
I keep swinging my hand through a swarm of bees
'Cause I want honey on my table
But I never get it right
No, I never get it right
I keep swinging my hand through a swarm of bees
I can't understand why they're stinging me
But I'll do what I want, I'll do what I please
I'll do it again till I got what I need
I'll rip and smash through the hornet's nest
Do you understand I deserve the best?
And I'll do what I want, I'll do what I please
I'll do it again till I got what I need
Tom took them to the Dark Lord's office when his legs allowed it. He wasn't in there; Harry couldn't feel him. But Bed Sheet was, and he probably had to explain that there wouldn't be a prisoner until Voldemort returned.
He didn't open the way, though he knew the password. He stared at the statue instead. 'How could he see them and we couldn't?' He wondered.
'… I don't know.'
'If they were ghosts like the ghosts in the castle, we would have seen them?'
'I know.'
'So then why…' Harry realised he'd been about to think the same question.
Nagini found him a few moments later, staring at the eagle with his whole face pursed in a scowl.
"What is it? What did he do?" She asked in Parseltongue, spooking him out of his thoughts.
"I don't know?"
She spoke the password and led the way up the tightly winding staircase.
"Something weird happened. In the chamber," he said once they were closed in Voldemort's office. Weird was an understatement, but he went with it anyway.
Bed Sheet returned to his shoulders from the ceiling—where he'd been floating in the domed space like a cloak lost in the ocean.
"… I think he saw his mum. I think he saw… I think he saw mine, too."
Nagini blinked and then scowled the same as he was, so that they were just standing and frowning at each other.
"That's not good," she said eventually, and Harry thought that much was obvious.
"What did he do?" She asked when he did nothing but silently agree.
"He Disapparated. And he doesn't know we know who he saw. My- my Horcrux told us."
His stomach acid was violent at the thought of his Horcrux, sizzling a hole in his middle. The way he'd called for his mother— their mother—had been nearly mindless, like a lost child. In some ways that was what he was.
'… He asked me to tell her to take him with her,' he thought.
Tom didn't respond while Harry processed it. He knew logically that there was no way for their mother to take Crux anywhere. He was firmly lodged in the Dark Lord's head; he couldn't be wished out. While Harry was sure there was a way to remove him, he didn't think it would be what his Horcrux envisioned.
The more disturbing part was how readily he demanded death.
It was obvious that Tom was having an entirely different dilemma in the privacy of his constructed mind, and Harry realised he had no clue how he or the Dark Lord would react to seeing Merope. Didn't have even the slightest idea of what she might have said.
Tom didn't answer Harry's non-question; instead, he reached for Nagini and pulled her in, squeezing her against his chest. His breathing was shaky, and Harry couldn't draw a complete lungful.
"Are you alright?" Nagini whispered.
When he didn't answer, she dragged him—arms around his middle—to the Dark Lord's chair and dropped him in it.
She poured him a glass of what he correctly assumed was whiskey from one of the bookshelves and he drained it. Harry couldn't pinpoint how he felt. He kept repeating what he'd seen and heard on a loop in his head, each time getting closer to the emotions he could feel hiding from him. Likely obscured under shock.
"How?" He asked, and nobody answered.
The Dark Lord didn't return for hours, and when he did reappear in his office, the first thing he did was pour a drink that was a hair from the rim of the glass.
"What did you see?" Tom immediately demanded, not standing from Voldemort's desk.
He didn't respond, had his back semi-turned as he sipped at his whiskey.
"Who did you see?" Harry asked.
Tom stood up like the seat was hot when he noticed the lack of a ring on the Dark Lord's thumb, his mind audibly racing. "The ring. Where's the ring? It can't be; that is insanity. I cannot possibly have had it all this time." Tom was hissing fast in Parseltongue, the Dark Lord watching him from the corner of his vision—sipping his drink casually with eyes that were too wide.
"The Resurrection Stone? It is? Isn't it? In the ring? Who did you see?" Tom was talking ever faster, rounding the desk to stand inches from the Dark Lord. "Where is it?"
Voldemort was smiling; there was no warmth or happiness in it. He poured another drink, smirking to himself as he did, silent.
"Where is it? Who did you see?" Tom heard the pleading tone in his own voice and stepped back, scoffing.
Harry was ready to walk out, Tom's anger spilling into him, the Dark Lord's attitude already grating.
"Yes. The Resurrection Stone. In the palm of my hand almost all this time. How it came to be within the ring…" He trailed off and took his second drink as a shot, "I will find out."
"The Resurrection Stone as in one of the Deathly Hallows? You've got two?" Harry asked.
Voldemort laughed, really laughed, buckled breathlessly in half in an instant, glass in hand but tilted toward the floor, dripping the dregs of his whiskey everywhere. "All—three."
"…What?" Tom asked, " What did you say?"
"Come now, did you think that cloak of his was standard Demiguise fur? How many years did he possess it?" Voldemort said when he straightened.
"That cloak is mine," Harry snapped, before he truly registered what the Dark Lord meant. "…It's one of the Hallows?"
"You have all three," Tom said, though he was more talking to himself, "You're…" There was rage, jealously, and awe in his words and head. "Who—did—you—see?"
He chuckled again, and Harry was done with the smug. He threw himself at the Dark Lord without warning—kicking off the floor to launch at him, a satisfying collision—the curse like knives from his palms and forearms. Harry wrestled him to the stones; the way he was still laughing stoked the anger that he couldn't get a grip on.
Bed Sheet supplied the rage-filled, warning noises that inspired a fear he wished he could instil—a siren-like, crackling yowl—mouth un-stitching against Harry's back, sharp teeth getting caught in his robes like Velcro.
The Dark Lord stopped laughing when Harry wound the darkness around his throat and squeezed, hands locked tight in the fabric of Voldemort's shirt, trying to tear through the black fabric with the darkness—unsuccessful as though he'd charmed for it. He could feel that his teeth were bared, that his eyes were saucers, that he was growling too. Not in control enough to stop any of it. "Who—did—YOU—SEE?" He slammed Voldemort's head into the bricks with each syllable, straddling his hips and scarcely aware of it.
Light exploded from the Dark Lord, but Harry didn't let go, blasting the curse from the rest of his skin in response. A shield against the burns but sharp on his skin, drawing blood. Bed Sheet came loose, ear-piercing wails from the Lethifold that made him angrier. "Tell me! Who you saw! Who were you talking to?!"
The darkness was ripping the room apart, the light burning the remains, and Harry had the awareness to know he should stop, that Nagini and Bed Sheet were in the office with them, but that was the end of the coherency. He couldn't feel them with the curse, which was good enough.
Voldemort grabbed the back of Harry's neck with one hand, and he tried to free himself immediately, knowing that if the bliss hit him, he wasn't getting answers. He threw himself backwards—knees at a painful angle until he rolled free and stood. He didn't drop the curse from the Dark Lord's throat throughout, a noose he gradually tightened.
Voldemort's face was red as he struggled to his feet, light strobing in his hands, silently laughing with a vein bulging in his forehead.
"You were talking about me," Harry said, in English and far steadier than he'd expected, "…My parents?"
He finally stopped laughing, face falling for an instant before his expression was an emotionless mask.
"It was, wasn't it? That's who you saw?" Harry knew who he'd seen.
His father hadn't been one of the ghosts; Crux had hinted as much. But he needed the Dark Lord to admit it, needed to hear what his mother had said in a way that was fostering panic. " TELL—ME!" He yanked the Dark Lord toward him like an unruly dog on a leash.
He didn't stumble, walked forward with it, frustratingly nonchalant. The sweat beading on his forehead was the only sign of impact.
"One need not be a chamber to be haunted—one need not be a house—the brain has corridors surpassing material place. Far safer of a midnight meeting external ghost than its interior confronting—that cooler host."
"Shut UP! Don't fucking do that I don't care about fucking POETRY who—did—you—SEE?" Voice almost shrill, Harry yanked the Dark Lord to his knees and closed the space between them, glaring down his nose at Voldemort.
That was his mistake, made complacent by the Dark Lord's non-reaction.
"Tell me," he said, pulling Harry deftly to the floor—light bursting from the Dark Lord's hands and burning his chest, pinned quicker than seemed possible, "Since we are so open with one another, what you are hiding from me in your head?"
He didn't give Harry time to answer—not that he had one, "Tell me, as we are being forthright, what the Djinn wants with you? Make it clear to me, Harry," as the Dark Lord said his name, he grabbed Harry's jaw and squeezed, forcing his mouth open, "What your goals are? Do you want to stand at my side as my equal because you lust for power? Am I correct? Close? Has my Horcrux lured you to prestige? Do you enjoy the taste of control?"
"You're desperate to know, aren't you?" Harry squirmed; the curse around the Dark Lord's neck was double-edged—the sharp and deliciously familiar pain lulled him from his rage as effectively as it brought Voldemort to heel. Sporadically. The light from the Dark Lord's hands and his mouth—close to Harry's ear—was enough to hold him on the spot, heart fluttering like a panicked bird. Jagged red snaking into his open mouth, liquid heat, almost gentle. As soft as something sharp could be.
His fists twisted in fabric and pushing against the hand locked on his jaw, uselessly, wanting fingers in his mouth as intensely as he wanted answers. He couldn't wind the ink-green magic tight enough around the Dark Lord's throat without distracting himself entirely, and so Voldemort didn't stop talking—his pulse racing under the darkness—whispering questions that Harry knew he expected no responses to, part mocking, almost prayer-like. Then the bliss hit him, and he laughed, sighed, and forgot what he'd been doing in the first place.
"Desperate as you seem to be," the Dark Lord said.
Harry laughed harder, wrapping his legs around Voldemort's, trapping one of them. "You just asked me like… Thirteen? Fifteen? Questions? I asked one. Two?" Harry remembered he had a question, "You saw them? Right? The ghosts of… Who? Because of your ring."
"Turned three times in hand to bring loved ones temporarily back from the dead," his lips were on Harry's jaw, words tickling his face.
"Loved ones?" He giggled, then gasped when the temperature increased, searing his neck and face, "You? Who?"
"Accidental. Remarkable I had not done it sooner," the Dark Lord was biting his words in, holding Harry's mouth away.
"… Does anyone have the password? For here?" Harry wondered, a brief instant of lucidity as he took in the wrecked office and the confused Lethifold. "'Cause this looks…" He pulled the Dark Lord closer, legs wound tighter. His gasps became moans when he found friction.
"No," Voldemort said, just above a whisper.
"You saw Merope?" Tom asked.
It had the effect of throwing a bucket of iced water in the Dark Lord's face.
"And Harry's Horcrux brought Lily to you," Tom pressed, unperturbed when Voldemort struggled free—like a bug in a web. "What did they say?"
"No spirits were speaking to you," the Dark Lord hissed, standing over Harry but stepping back.
"Oh, sure," Harry laughed, an empty sound, "Sure, they weren't talking to me." He got to his feet, "Or about me. More lies brought to you by the Dark Lord Voldemort," he spread his arms out wide, eyes bulging, rage resurfacing with the desperation to know, followed just behind by the growing sense that the Dark Lord wasn't going to tell him anything. His cock rock hard regardless, his heartbeat twitching a rhythm down low.
The erection fuelled his anger and the anger fuelled his erection, the curse snaking up to both elbows—he debated dropping it for clarity but didn't. "Don't you dare Disapparate," Harry said when it seemed he might. For good measure, he sprang forward and grabbed his arm so that if he did, he'd go with him.
"You're wasting your time," the Dark Lord hissed, an edge of desperate exasperation in his voice, "Get your godforsaken hands off me."
Harry didn't remove his godforsaken hands. He bit the Dark Lord instead, latching onto his throat just under his Adam's apple and growling rage into his skin, frustration overwhelming, wisps of the curse becoming branches that twisted around Voldemort. His legs, torso, and arms were engulfed by thick vines of ink. Voldemort had gripped Harry's hair in an attempt to dislodge him, but his jaw was locked, pulling like a dog playing tug of war until the Dark Lord relented and slammed them both back to the stones with enough force to wind him and break Voldemort's skin. Blood and bliss on his teeth were not enough reason to let go.
His clothes were vanished—the Snakewood wand falling out—the bricks cold despite the fireplace and the heat of the light, lost on Harry nearly entirely. Any fraction of gentleness was gone from the Dark Lord's magic, burning, biting, frantic in response to the curse. Harry wasn't delicate with it either, cutting under clothes, feeling and ripping at the Dark Lord's skin, memorising his shape without sight—fury writhing just underneath the warm fuzz of contact. His hands had reached Voldemort's lower buttons without his instruction.
" You always talk like you don't like this as much as I do," Harry muttered into his throat, Parseltongue and husky. Fingers racing to free the Dark Lord's cock, tongue tracing his Adam's apple—delighted in the way Voldemort repeatedly swallowed, a rumble in his throat that Harry knew wasn't far off a moan, " But I know you do."
Cedar, blood, and whiskey clouded his senses, searing hands tracing red-raw lines as they wandered the length of him. Fingertips digging for bruises.
Once Harry had completed the buttons, both arms were pinned above his head, the Dark Lord used one hand to hold them. His legs were forced further apart by Voldemort's knees, one hand between them to lubricate and position himself. His mouth to Harry's scar, he muttered, " What gave you the impression I do not relish this?" Then thrust into him, gasping as Harry did—as though they hadn't inhaled throughout. He Looked down at Harry with a hunger he couldn't attribute entirely to rage or lust. Fuelled by both, he decided, pulling against the Dark Lord's unrelenting grip on his wrists and matching the frantic pace he set with his hips.
Pain and pleasure equal and fighting for dominance, nerve endings lit like supernovas. Light and dark burning and biting as he rocked, periodically deaf to the sounds he was making, zooming back into his awareness and then out again, powerless to control it even when he heard the loud, keening moans.
He all but screamed 'Fuck' as he came, twisting his arms in a final attempt to get free and force the Dark Lord's mouth to his own; legs wound painfully around him as his muscles locked. He dropped the curse to breathe, prolonging the pleasure to an unbearable degree. Voldemort rolled his hips twice more—made difficult but not impossible by Harry's leg lock—and muffled the sound he made on Harry's neck. The light sputtered out as he stilled, no longer burning an imprint on his arms, neck, or left hip.
The Dark Lord's breathing was uneven, unpredictable against his chest, sporadic deep inhales interspersed with sharpness or absence. Harry wasn't surprised that he hadn't moved, though he supposed that was because he was incapable of shock while blissed up to his teeth, gasping softly each time the Dark Lord's cock twitched inside him. His nose was pressed in the crook of Harry's neck, his hand tight on his tender wrists.
"…How are you… Stronger than me… I've never seen you do even one push-up," Harry whispered.
Voldemort inhaled deeply, a low, continuous moan underneath, cool air rushing along Harry's neck, "You are rendered pathetically weak," he traced a burn with his tongue, and Harry shivered, and gasped. "Rendered weak by yourself," each minute squirm was overwhelming, "By me."
Harry didn't recall how they'd wound up on the floor, the cold stone contradicting the burning of his skin. The Dark Lord was rocking his hips once more, held loosely by Harry's legs.
His gasps turned to scrambled whines, half attempting to free himself, his hips disagreeing. He yelped when Voldemort gripped his cock, fought fruitlessly again to free his wrists, held almost absently above his head. The Dark Lord's thumb traced excruciating circles on the tip of his cock, slick with cum, mind-blitzing, writhing as though he was being electrocuted.
For once rendered speechless, the words in his brain fried to a crisp before reaching his lips.
The Dark Lord's pace was as sporadic as his breath; slow rolling matched with frantic thrusts. He was no longer stopping or muffling the noises he made, and Harry coherently wished that he could bottle the sound—every hair on his body stood on end in response, wild, painful bliss so intense he thought his heart might burst—he knew he was louder only theoretically, all he could hear was Voldemort.
"Secure against its own—no treason can it fear—itself, its sovereign, of itself, the soul should stand in awe-"
"Nnn, fuck, fuck," the second time Harry came, it was as near to death as he felt like he'd ever been.
Neurons in his brain exploded then evaporated under an acidic intensity, bleached, and then turned to dust by way of nuclear evaporation. Nothing existed before that instant, and nothing would come after it—only a certainty for as long as that eternal moment.
He couldn't breathe until it passed, rocked with aftershocks as his chest heaved against the full weight of the Dark Lord. Voldemort's heart pounding in his neck, pressed to Harry's.
His wrists were released almost gingerly, and the glimpse he got of the Dark Lord's face as he freed himself and promptly vanished—leaving Harry naked and covered in blood—told him Voldemort was afraid.
( AN: V recites a section of 'One need not be a chamber to be haunted' and 'The soul unto itself' by Emily Dickinson.)
