(TW: Sexual scene.)

Under Your Skin, Aesthetic Perfection

Mouth open
It's late
Dead silence
Black space
I've been patient
For too long
I just can't wait to get under your skin

Without thinking
Take what I want
My claws creeping down
Where it's warm
If I'm dreaming
Is this wrong?
I just can't wait to get under your skin

I'm not sure what this could be
Something's broke inside of me
Tucked away and out of sight
The after-hours bring it to life


By mid-afternoon—after watching Voldemort work while pretending to read a book on dark arts for beginners, boring if you had an expert in your head—he was sprinting in the thankfully chilled front yard of the Malfoy Manor, still needing to ask Bed Sheet off and remove his outer robe, sweating anyway. The Dark Lord observed, pacing, masked.

They were alone otherwise, though Harry knew there were Death Eaters inside the manor. Probably peeking periodically out the windows.

'How are you doing?' He wondered.

'I can do this.' Tom was resolute and distracted.

Harry didn't want to think, 'Are you sure?' Instead he focused on inhaling through a muscle stitch in his side as he sprinted back and forward across the frosted lawn.

'I'm kinda…' He stopped to wait out the stitch, 'I'm nervous.' He admitted, cheeks red from more than the forced exercise.

'…I know. So am I.'

He figured they had different reasons. Harry's reasons came from a growing resolution. The next opportunity he had, he was going to throw everything at. A move that might get them murdered as much as it might make Voldemort plead.

'Insane to trust anything my Horcrux says,' Harry thought.

'Not when he is right.'

'…What if it doesn't work?'

'I'll find another way.'

He didn't start running again; instead, he fell into the cold grass and splayed his legs out in front of him. He took a muscle repair potion out of his pants pocket and uncorked it before the Dark Lord could say anything about his unscheduled break. Harry could feel him, standing nearly right behind where he sat.


By nightfall, Harry could tell the Dark Lord was stressed. He couldn't decide if it was Har-im-hotep or the attacks that seemed as though they were Harry's work bunching Voldemort's hands into fists.

They'd transferred to the sitting room he'd turned into an office in the Malfoy Manor after Harry's second shower.

He understood that the Dark Lord was pretending to read just as he was, the same scroll frozen in his pale fingers for over fifteen minutes.

"Is it a meeting tonight, or are you just looking into the attacks?" Harry asked, whispering because the room was so quiet; the only sound was the occasional pop and splutter of the fireplace.

"Meeting."

His resistance to speaking in Parseltongue had begun to irritate Harry for reasons he hadn't examined. He still hadn't thought too deeply about it when a knock at the door—distinctly Cassiopeia's—had Voldemort standing instantly.

Harry had a few seconds to be amused before Tom's anger overflowed and he was scowling without the reason why.

Nagini—frowning as though she'd been made to take medicine—and Har-im-hotep followed the vampire into the room, and it was obvious in a split-second that it was not part of the Dark Lord's plan. Rage so uncontrolled on his face that Harry worried for a moment if he might try to kill Cassiopeia and the Djinn.

"Now, now," the vampire said, swanning into a seat with both hands raised.

Nagini was on the floor, twisting into a serpent and disappearing under Voldemort's desk.

"Since you're so busy we surmised it best to come to you," Har said, still standing, he and the Dark Lord staring at each other while a vein tried to burst in Voldemort's forehead.

"…I have nothing to discuss with you. The only reason you are not dead-"

"Ah, come on." Har laughed, interrupting, "We both know you couldn't if you tried. There's an alliance to be had here. One, I'm certain, brought you to me in the first place. Do we start with animosity?"

"We certainly will if you insist on reaping chaos," Voldemort said, though he was slowly lowering to his seat.

Har grinned like the Cheshire cat, bright blue eyes lighting his face. "I should hope by now it is what you've come to expect from me." The Djinn's gaze flicked to Harry, then back again, before he sat down sharply and crossed his legs in the last armchair.

"My followers will be arriving any moment. I have more pressing issues," Voldemort said, though he'd taken his seat.

Tom was actively seething in Cassiopeia's direction and refused to meet her eyes, though Harry could feel her looking at him.

"I can assure you that you don't, but as you wish. We will discuss afterward," Har said.

Harry could practically hear the Dark Lord think 'I'd rather eat glass,' but he said nothing, returned to his feet and shoved the door open—seeping probably an equal amount of rage as Tom was while he replaced his mask and hood. Nagini followed after him, Harry behind her. Cassiopeia grabbed his arm and pulled him back to walk in step with her, oblivious to or ignoring Tom's body language.

"Vous êtes fou si vous pensez que ce château de cartes ne va pas vous exploser à la figure," She whispered, and Harry resisted the urge to sucker-punch her neck, a sentiment shared by Tom.

"Tu crois que je ne le sais pas? C'est la seule chance que nous ayons," He hissed, fallen far enough behind to be unheard while Har talked the Dark Lord's ear off in much the same manner.

"Stop it, both of you," Harry snapped.

"Should have told me is all I'm saying. Félicitations."

"Shut the fuck up, Cassiopeia, enough," Tom stopped walking and then jogged down the staircase to get away from her.

Harry wondered, not for the first time, what exactly she'd done. Didn't need to ask to know he wouldn't be told.

Nagini remained a serpent even once they reached the dining room and taken their seats, and Harry had to assume she was hiding from the situation. He wished he could do the same, vanish under the table and slip the Dark Lord's mind.

Voldemort was staring resolutely at the far wall, eyes squinting now and then, hands clenched tight on the wood—except when he raised a finger each time Cassiopeia opened her mouth to speak. She read the room well enough to keep her words in.

Har didn't, "I've had no assurance that you're taking my warnings seriously. Or indeed that you've even laid eyes on them."

"You are right; I tore your letters to pieces each time they found their way to me."

"Ah, well, you must have read the first few to shred the rest?" Har seemed confident.

Cassiopeia was nodding beside Harry.

The Dark Lord yanked his sleeve up with enough force to make an audible snap and pressed his wand to the Dark Mark. Har was watching Harry, intense and expressionless.

"Who is the fourth?" Har-im-hotep asked.

It seemed like he was asking Harry, but he sure as hell didn't answer.

"The—fourth—what." Voldemort said.

"There are four. He is your Horcrux, yes? That is how he came to be carrying a part of you. I can think of no other explanation."

Instead of lashing out at Har, as he'd expected him to, he grabbed Harry by his hair and snarled Parseltongue in his ear, "What did you tell him."

"Careful, he's an eavesdropping prick," Harry said, largely unphased by the attempted intimidation, "Didn't tell him anything he didn't already know or guess."

Partially a lie but he didn't figure anyone would out him or Nagini.

The door gave a tell-tale creak, and the Dark Lord released him, glaring instead at Har while his followers filed into the room.

Lucius, Narcissa, and Greyback first, then the new Dark Arts professor, Oriel… Something, and four people he didn't recognise. Two older men, an older woman, and a twenty-something-year-old woman—regrowing her right arm, a stump with a tiny hand on the end of it.

All of them stared at Harry.

"What's going on? Why are they all looking at you?"

"There were attacks last night," he told the vampire.

"I know? So? Why are they looking at you?"

"I think they think it was me," he muttered as they took their chairs.

"…Why would they think that?"

Harry shrugged.

"Lucius," the Dark Lord wasted no time, eyes not on the blonde as he spoke, instead, he narrowed them at Harry.

"Attacks might indicate stronger Order numbers…" Lucius said.

"Or desperation," Voldemort waved a hand, dismissive, "What do you know."

The four Harry didn't know spoke at once, then fell silent when the Dark Lord whipped to look at them.

"The estates were laid low; they require extensive repair. It was impossible to get an accurate count of the assailants, the nature of the magic…"

Voldemort glanced at Harry, and for a moment, there was only exasperation in his eyes, a 'See what I have to put up with?' Before he noticed and corrected himself. "Reach your point, Lucius."

"It was like his," The young dark-haired woman said, pointing at Harry, her whole demeanour accusing.

"We have established that. Elaborate."

Harry realised he was holding his breath but did nothing to correct it.

"It was black, giant, ripping. Like smoke only it tore my arm off and chewed it up. Destroyed our estate. Killed my… My grandmother and my uncle." Her voice rose at the end, but she didn't stumble.

"Black?" Harry asked. "Just black?"

"Yes." She didn't open her teeth to say it.

"Well, mine's got green in it-" He was interrupted by a solid thud under the table—Nagini, he assumed, though she didn't come out. "Mine has green in it. So."

"What does that prove? You might have just taken the green out?" She said, and one of the older men touched her shoulder.

"…I can't 'Take the green out' it doesn't work like that."

"His whereabouts are accounted for," Voldemort said, "Disregard the idea," he was staring at Lucius, a very clear, unsaid 'This was your job.' "From what I can surmise, this may well have been the work of little more than a handful of wizards with the right spellcraft. Your wards?"

"Broken. Very quickly," the older woman said.

"Narcissa, see that you put them in touch with my ward crafters."

"With all due respect, my Lord, our wards were strong." One of the men said.

"And now you need new protection." The Dark Lord deadpanned, "If you do not want it, by all means."

"I only meant to say that- A handful of wizards? Those wards stood proud for hundreds of years."

"It will be investigated," Voldemort said.

"And it wasn't me," Harry added.

"Stop speaking."

The Parseltongue felt like a victory.

"This would be more entertaining if the room didn't reek of wet dog," Cassiopeia loudly stated.

"She isn't wrong; I smell it too," Har said, staring right at Greyback, further down the left side of the colossal table.

"Time and again, this wretched bloodsucker proves she cannot be serious," the werewolf jabbed his whole hand in her direction.

"I think wafting in smelling like that is quite serious," Cassiopeia said, nudging Harry as she did.

"…Cassiopeia, you will oversee Oriel in the Dark Arts position and ensure she is competent in the material," Voldemort said.

"Great, love that for me," the vampire didn't look at the new professor.

The four strangers were either gripping the tabletop or leaning across it.

"Do you really think that it was only a few wizards?" Harry asked, words tumbling out in the serpent tongue before he really thought about it.

"…Attacks keep them busy. Prevents much of the squabbling around blood purity." The Dark Lord stopped to sigh, barely audible, "You have a fish?" He asked Har, still in Parseltongue.

The Djinn shrugged and nodded, and Voldemort blinked at the ceiling.

"-It prevents much of the squabbling, but this is only the case when my Death Eaters carry out the attacks."

"You're downplaying it? So they don't freak out?"

He didn't answer, addressed the four at the end of the table, "Until your estates are seen to, your families are welcome here."

It seemed to be news to Lucius, but he hid it well.

"Most gracious, we've made plans to shore up at Taynuilt." One of the men said, and the rest agreed, reciting their own plans, apparently not keen to stay with the Malfoys.

They were dismissed, though they seemed like they had more they wanted to say. With them went Oriel, who also looked like she'd wanted to say something.

"Can you dismiss dog stench next?" Cassiopeia said.

Greyback stood up, both hands on the table, growling. The vampire snorted.

"Aw, cute, little stinky puppy. No table manners, needs a bath. And a muzzle."

"Fenrir, Lucius, you know what needs doing. Tu me fais chier," he pointed the French at Cassiopeia.

'He said she is pissing him off,' Tom automatically translated.

Greyback dismissed himself, and with each one gone, Harry's stomach jumped higher into his throat. He figured if Har and Cassiopeia made him angry enough, he'd Disapparate. Harry didn't know if he'd be taken with him or not. Nagini was still under the table, and Bed Sheet was on his shoulders, two problems he'd figured he'd deal with if he did Disapparate.

He figured his best shot at being taken with the Dark Lord if he vanished was to be on his best behaviour. He took a vow of silence in that moment and fixed his eyes on the candelabras at the centre of the dwindling meeting. Narcissa gave her token report on gold, and Harry thought that if he were ever forced to recite anything she'd ever said in one of her speeches, he would be fucked.

When she finished, the Malfoys were reluctantly dismissed by the Dark Lord, leaving the vampire, the Djinn, his Maledictus familiar, and his human Horcrux.

"Who is the fourth?" Har asked, as though nothing had interrupted him.

"Have you considered I have this at hand without your assistance?" Voldemort was nearly squirming in his seat as he removed the mask.

"Interesting, have you considered that this is precisely what you should be collaborating about? Very much a group concern." Har-im-hotep said.

"This is far from a group concern."

"Have to disagree with you there; the way I see it, you two are responsible for the upcoming apocalypse. I hate apocalypses," Cassiopeia said. "Bad vibes."

Harry nearly said, 'Don't involve me I don't know anything,' but he didn't.

"It is under control," he said again, ramrod straight back.

"Dark Dork Voldemort has this all figured out, Har," Cassiopeia said, "Far be it from us to get in the way of the smartest man alive when everything is at stake."

Harry nearly slid out of his chair when she called him 'Dark Dork Voldemort', his face and throat fighting under the weight of the snort and the grin, probably making him look like a stunned mullet.

"…Who is the fourth?" Har-im-hotep repeated, and Voldemort stood up, snatched Harry's hand off the tabletop and Disapparated.

When he was dropped on the dead lawn outside the little house with the green wards, he didn't know if he felt lucky or horrified; the laugh still caught in his throat. The Dark Lord was already halfway to the door.

Harry scrambled to his feet, breathing erratically, and shrugged Bed Sheet off his shoulders. "Wait here, okay? Or… I mean," he thought about it, shifting foot to foot, "If you're smart about it, maybe there's someone to eat around here? Not like a kid or anything. Uh… You can be smart about it, right?" He was second-guessing his decision, but Bed Sheet was thrilled, cooing and rippling, mouth unstitching, so he didn't revoke it. "Meet me back here, okay?"

He felt stark naked when the Lethifold drifted away, more so when he reached the door, already closed.

Voldemort noticed the absence of his living cloak immediately, "Where is it?"

"…Um." He took him in, at the desk, pouring himself a drink already, "I kinda- he's hungry, so I told him-"

"To free roam the countryside in search of prey?"

"Yeah," Harry agreed. The only free seat was the one with the shackles, and he took it, purposefully not putting any part of himself near the restraints.

The stack of student profiles was on the desktop next to the bottle. Harry didn't know whether they were copies or if Voldemort had sent them ahead. Just what he needed, either way.

"Do you know where we are?" The Dark Lord asked, shotting the second drink Harry had seen him take.

"How would I? You've made sure I don't." He picked up the first profile, scanned the contents—Elki Carter, one of the students from Ilvermorny—and set it down after a convincing number of seconds.

"You've sent your Lethifold to hunt just outside of Hogsmeade."

Harry snorted, "You're joking. You mean you brought me… When Draco kidnapped me, we were just outside Hogsmeade?"

"It made no difference, did it?" He was on his third, and Harry figured he'd start sometime after the fifth settled.

He picked up another profile—Edamura Tadasu, Mahoutokoro—and eyed the bottle, wondered if he could get away with swiping it, heart hammering in his chest as he picked up the next profile, "Yeah, guess it didn't."

"Reckon we didn't convince your Death Eaters it wasn't me," Harry muttered when the Dark Lord said nothing, nervous murmuring while he searched for one profile in particular.

"I do not imagine we did."

"Do you think the Order is growing?" Harry switched to Parseltongue, tried to be smooth about it, though his face went scarlet.

"It is growing."

Giddy nerves bolted up into his chest at the sound of the serpent tongue reciprocated and he did steal the bottle then, swigging as much as he could before Voldemort snatched it back. He was pretending to work, had taken out implements to suggest it—parchment, unopened letters, a quill—and done nothing with them.

"What is wrong with you?" He was on his fourth drink, and Harry didn't answer the question.

He was flicking through the profiles fairly rapidly after that and figured the Dark Lord would be tipsy enough to pay it no attention.

'Are you alright?' It was Tom's turn to ask him.

'Yeah. Just panicking. A bit. I'm fine. Are you?' He found the profile he was looking for as he thought it, quickly closed it in his grip as Voldemort finished his fifth and poured a sixth.

'I'll… I'm fine.'

"Should you drink that much that often?" He asked, hands shaking on the parchment.

The Dark Lord laughed, a clumsy sound that Harry figured was a good amount of drunk. He hesitated anyway, no rhythm to his heartbeat.

"Are we really the cause of the apocalypse? How? Do you know how?" The questions weren't what he'd meant to say.

The Dark Lord drained his sixth glass like he was dying of thirst, "It is none of your concern."

"…That dream, when my Horcrux-"

Voldemort slammed his fist on the table and Harry opened the profile—rapidly switching tactics—and lowered it to his lap so that they could both see the smarmy grin of Marc Dufresne. He stared at it for long enough for the Dark Lord to turn in his seat, twisting to face him.

"What are you doing?" There was a warning in the Parseltongue that Harry steadfastly ignored.

"I was just thinking. Since you've made it clear it won't be you who'll 'beg' in this stupid power trip game, and it's definitely not going to be me… Someone's gotta fuck me."

Voldemort's face went red, eyebrows nearing his hairline before they drew back down in a scowl that threatened murder.

"He's good-looking enough. Dark hair. Maybe a bit too much hair for my taste, but I'm sure it will be fine-"

Though he was drunk, he moved like lightning, stood up and held Harry's throat in one hand, in the other a Squib Snake—produced from his sleeve as though he'd carried it around for that specific purpose. Instead of showing the fear that the Dark Lord was undoubtedly trying to inspire, despite the nerves shredding his insides, Harry laughed—slightly unhinged—and leaned forward, pressing his neck into Voldemort's grip.

"And if I kill him?"

"Before or after? Because if you mean after, I'd still—consider—it." Harry pulled on his hand to get his words out and was rewarded with a tighter grip. He opened his mouth in a silent dare, and watched the Dark Lord's eyes widen, a delicious and chaotic satisfaction growing at the sight of it.

"Threats—from—you, how—original," Harry squirmed free enough to gasp a breath, "Do something different for a change and go through with it. All the way."

Voldemort's hold was loosening, though he still held the squirming snake inches from Harry's mouth.

"What's its name?" He asked, moving closer, "Have you named it? Ready and waiting for me to piss you off just enough? 'Cause you're scared you'll lose control, right? Because you're scared of me. You're more scared of me than anyone you've ever met."

When Harry had envisioned what he'd do in the moment, he'd pictured himself like his Horcrux, screaming like a banshee and thrashing wild. Instead, his words came out husky, his cheeks flushed as he gripped the Dark Lord's wrist and pushed into his hand, the bliss flooding down his chest and up into his head, weakening his grip. "Stick a Squib Snake down my throat, Tom Riddle. Do it. Right before your global duelling competition. Take my magic. So fucking clever, like everything else you've done-"

He was yanked to his feet by his neck, the metal snake tossed at the stone wall and disintegrating into dozens of semi-joined rings. Harry summoned the curse from his fingertips in response, trailed his hands along the Dark Lord's arm, and got as close as he could while being held firmly away, trying to hook one leg around his and drag him to the floor, unsuccessfully. The sharp darkness worked to clear most of the relaxation that came with the bliss, almost sending him rabid instead.

"Just do it," Harry whispered, searching the Dark Lord's face, fighting to lean in. "Just fucking do it, I can see you want to, I want you to, fucking do it," each syllable he wound the darkness higher, hands vibrating with adrenaline, under Voldemort's sleeve, coiling across his chest and his neck—the way his eyelids fluttered made Harry's cock twitch—painfully hard. His heart was fit to burst in his chest; his pulse felt too high pressure for compatibility with life.

He watched Voldemort's will crumble away like theatre on his face, first denial, then desire, followed by fear—twisted by his drunkenness—and a hunger that won out. The Dark Lord was stripping Harry's robe off before he said anything, which Harry thought was premature, but it freed his hands to do the same, each struggling to get the other free, winding the curse up his arms as he shrugged his robes off—steadying his resolve and blurring his thoughts into unrecognisable mush.

"Bend over the fucking desk. Please." The Dark Lord froze, and so did Harry, blinking at each other, hands locked in the fabric of the other's clothes. His tone was desperate, voice breaking on the word 'Please,' light strobing from his palms as he resumed tearing Harry's clothes off.

He decided in that instant it was likely as good as they would get, that he had to take it. The stakes were too high, and if he was honest, he couldn't take another second of it, forceful, vibrant desire clouding his head and his cock.

Voldemort stopped him violently each time he reached for his shirt buttons, burning his wrists when he tried. On the third attempt he switched to ripping at the Dark Lord's pants buttons—apparently acceptable. He couldn't get close with his mouth, either, though he wanted that too; he was shoved repeatedly away, slowing the process of stripping him naked.

The shock of the cold air on his legs, chest, and cock was almost unexpected. Pants around his ankles. The darkness wound to his shoulders to keep him steady, chin up despite the world-rocking level of adrenaline. The Dark Lord cleared the desk with a burst of magic, everything on it was off immediately, shattered glass, whiskey, and parchment all over the floor. Harry hadn't even registered that his hand was on Voldemort's cock, the other still struggling with the buttons, the curse and his nerves sending his arms wholly numb. His ears rang as he was pushed to the desk and turned around, the Dark Lord's bright-hot hands searing exposed skin.

The sounds Voldemort was making—as far as Harry could hear, his heart like a gong in his head—could be classified as divine. Soft, shocked moans gave way to freer noises, burning his back as he pushed him face-down into the desk.

He didn't get long to think about what was actually happening; the Dark Lord positioned himself and thrust into Harry in nearly the same instant, lubricated, but not for Harry's benefit. If he had thoughts to think as they both froze again, he might have thought that he should have done this sooner. Bliss and a sharp fullness blooming from his core, the heat and the cutting sting of the curse like a resplendent bath. As though he'd been starving, finally fed.

Harry was the first to move, noticed dumbly that he was whimpering as he rolled his hips experimentally, the darkness ripping chunks from the desktop. He gripped the wood like he was shipwrecked, gasping then moaning when the Dark Lord leaned into him to bite his shoulder, his hands somehow everywhere—too hot—muttering words that implied hatred, tone saying otherwise. Muffled moaning right next to Harry's ear heating the intense pleasure that grew in his middle.

He couldn't reach his cock, but it didn't matter. He didn't need the input, dizzy with the intensity and further undone when Voldemort moved—slamming into him hard and fast—drawing blood from his shoulder and desperate moans from his mouth. Bursts of obsession and lust from Tom had Harry speaking gibberish, half words lost between moans and yelps, his face pressed on the cold wood—doing nothing to balm the heat that blossomed inside and out.

He screamed as he came, every muscle almost tense enough to detach from bone, ripping through him like any natural disaster might—a hurricane in his head, a tsunami in his middle. The Dark Lord went still inside him, teeth still dug into Harry's shoulder, panting uneven breaths.

Voldemort released the bite and murmured in his ear, "La vôtre?"

Tom reacted and threw a wave of the curse from every inch of his skin that startled Harry into moaning all over again, far too sensitive to bear it. Neither could the Dark Lord. He pulled free, snatched his pants up and Disapparated in one smooth motion.


(AN: Entering their slut era. 420k words and 69k hits. Nice.)