(AN & TW: Sorry about the delay I was rereading again and gift chapters always double up on me. This one tripled. This chapter contains psychological and physical torture severe enough to warrant an all-BOLD WARNING. This is gratuitous and extreme. It will be sectioned off in rows of O!O!O!O!O, and there will be a recap at the end so you don't miss plot if you skip it. Murder (Almost goes without saying, but we're prolific here today). Also, sexual scene.)
The Horror of Our Love, Ludo
I'm a killer
Cold and wrathful
Silent sleeper
I've been inside your bedroom
I've murdered half the town
Left you love notes on their headstones
I'll fill the graveyards
Until I have you
Moonlight walking
I smell your softness
Carnivorous and lusting
To track you down among the pines
I want you stuffed into my mouth
Hold you down and tear you open
Live inside you
Oh, love I'd never hurt you
But I'll grind against your bones
Until our marrows mix
I will eat you slowly
The horror of our love
Never so much blood pulled through my veins
The horror of our love
Never so much blood
Tom was gleeful when he released the curse and the silencing charm that shielded them, standing beside the Dark Lord with his arms behind his back, lips twitching. Tom's inner thoughts ironically almost made Harry laugh:
'Don't laugh. Don't laugh. Be serious. Straight face don't laugh oh my god I'm marking them don't laugh.'
Harry pursed his lips and then sucked them into his teeth. Cheeks and eyebrows spasming, tears in his eyes. A raging erection because he hadn't finished—hadn't bothered with himself.
'…Don't laugh,' Tom thought, and Harry snorted.
Narcissa approached, frowning lightly, bowing to hide it. Harry's mouth tasted like the Dark Lord's cock and he laughed again, couldn't stop it from bubbling out.
'I said don't laugh,' Tom thought, then he diminished his statement by laughing.
"Do you need a moment," Voldemort asked in Parseltongue.
"Maybe," Tom said, hiding his mouth behind the back of his hand, tears streaming from the effort of withholding the cackling fit that wanted to take him over.
"…What is funny?" The Dark Lord was masked as usual, but he could tell he was frowning at missing the joke.
"How quickly you cum in his mouth," Tom said.
Harry was shocked into silence, face and ears red.
"Narcissa," No anger in his tone. Almost relaxed in his seat. In Parseltongue: "He has an excellent mouth."
Harry laughed again, an involuntary squawk. 'He's still messed up from the blood loss, right?' He thought.
'I believe he is more 'Messed up' by you.'
"My Lord?" Narcissa cleared her throat and glanced between them, "I have arranged for one hundred unmarked to arrive two hours from now. More after them. I did not think you were returning so soon," there was an intense question in her eyes, "…I could arrange for Lady Demetria, I believe she intends to offer Gwrych."
Harry blinked at her. It had almost sounded like she'd growled when she said 'Gwrych'.
"Have her join us in the observatory." The Dark Lord stood—the slightest wobble in his posture—and waved her off.
Harry followed him out of the hall and down the corridor that led to the observatory, past the hot spring, blushing scarlet at the sight of it. Voldemort walked faster as they passed.
Once inside, the Dark Lord transfigured a small table into a desk and a lounge chair into a high-backed seat. He sat down, removed his mask and hood, and gestured for Harry to take one of the chaise lounges.
"…Aren't you meeting…" Harry trailed off, so Tom said, "Demetria?"
"Yes." He didn't explain why he needed to show his face for that, so Harry pressed.
"And you're doing that with your face out because…?"
Voldemort beamed at him momentarily, almost a smirk if his eyes weren't so bright. "You said I should use it to my advantage?" He steepled his hands on the desk, still smiling, trying for innocent but not fooling anyone. So strikingly beautiful it took Harry's breath repeatedly, adrenaline pulsing low in his abdomen.
"Politically?" Harry said. "Tom meant politically?"
"Jealousy becomes you. Is this not political?" he purred in Parseltongue. Ignoring his name.
Narcissa's knock interrupted Harry before he could start. Voldemort flicked his hand to open the door, and Demetria entered, bowed, and then popped back up fast enough—Harry thought—to break her own back.
"My Lord?!" She chirped a laugh and then stopped herself, curtsying instead of bowing again.
Harry ground his teeth and flared his nostrils. Deeply unimpressed.
"Demetria," Voldemort said, drawing out the syllables of her name, "You requested an audience." Smug.
He hadn't given her a chair. Harry resisted the urge to get up and stand beside the Dark Lord like a possessive sentry.
Zabini's mother had reacted predictably to Voldemort's face. He got the sense that she had already held an interest in him, and he was watching it intensify in real-time. She was doing things with her face that Harry didn't like, swanning closer to the desk with hooded eyes and ill intentions. Dripping diamonds in a dark grey tight-fitting dress, grey fox furs on her shoulders. A small, stiff veil was pinned in her hair. She reminded Harry of a storm cloud.
"I have come to offer you my late husband's—rest his soul—estate. Gwrych Castle boasts extensive grounds. I have taken the initiativeand have a group working on repairing and extending the interior." She said 'initiative' like it was a filthy word.
Outwardly, the Dark Lord looked to be eating it up, tilting his head and smirking, eyes glittering.
The only reason Harry hadn't shot out of his semi-reclined position was Tom's thoughts on the matter. The castle was giving him an erection, not the woman offering it. Still, Harry glared daggers.
"Most gracious of you, Demetria," each time he said her name, she smiled—sly—and Harry scowled.
"I am to have the castle functional by tomorrow night, comfortable by Thursday," she crooned.
Harry scoffed, shook his head and rolled his eyes. "Should I give you and your lady friend some privacy?" He asked in Parseltongue, but he'd considered saying it in English for too long.
Her eyes were wide, and though he hadn't said it in English, his tone and expression screamed 'Jealousy'. So much so that he expected Voldemort to Obliviate her. He didn't do that.
"Do not fret, Harry, I will fuck you senseless in her dead husband's castle." The Dark Lord's expression was intense and obvious.
Harry grinned—open-mouthed—at the Parseltongue, shocked out of jealousy entirely. "Okay," in English. Made bolder by Voldemort's unwavering gaze, he told Demetria: "You can go."
Not for the first time, she seemed aghast at Harry's audacity. He bugged his eyes at her when she didn't immediately leave. The Dark Lord did nothing, watching him, occasionally flicking his eyes to her—not for long.
Demetria got the hint that Voldemort was waiting for her to take Harry's command and almost scoffed her way out of the observatory.
"…I don't like her," he said when the door closed, "You should let me kill her son." Harry could have balked at the easy way the desire to murder Zabini crept up his throat. He didn't have the moral energy.
"Better still, I will allow you to mark him."
"Isn't he already marked?" Harry asked. He couldn't deny the idea brought a twisted vindication. Maybe it was better to mark him.
Tom said, "The mark is an intricate piece of magic. They will assume there is something strange about Harry."
He wondered if Tom was trying to self-sabotage. He could hear him thinking that asking too many questions—making too many statements of fact—might make the Dark Lord think again. He asked and stated anyway.
"That we possess functionally identical cores will spark rumours, I am certain. Do you think they will come to the correct conclusion? …They already gossip incessantly about you. Zabini is marked. He and Draco Malfoy will need to be unmarked. You will do it. Tomorrow night." He'd stood as he spoke, twirling the Elder wand in his hands, watching Harry as he approached. Expression carefully blank.
"Let me see your mind," Tom said, and Harry laughed because the alternative was yelping in alarm.
"I'd have to kill you," the Dark Lord seemed amused, so he relaxed a little.
He wasn't used to calm from Voldemort, and was expecting an overdue tantrum.
His familiar abducted, his ego taken down a number of notches in front of his followers, divvying power to Tom instead of taking more away—rationalising and making excuses as to why, flimsy reasons, at that—discovering that the brat he'd been forced to endure was responsible for unleashing and enabling the demon in his head. Responsible for the forced proximity to begin with. That Harry had done it to take power from him—regardless of the fact that it had gotten out of control or that he didn't think the Dark Lord deserved what his Horcrux frequently did. Made aware of his own obsession with Harry in a probably brain-shattering way.
Voldemort knew all of it, and he seemed mostly strangely stable.
All in all, it made them nervous. Not quite fooled. Cracks were showing in his facade. Sometimes light spilled out.
"I hear you are obsessed with him," Tom said, and Harry said, "…Uh."
Voldemort grinned so hard it must have hurt. The smile didn't reach his eyes. "We have a commonality." He didn't ask how he'd heard.
"…And you still plan to render him mortal?" Tom pressed, and Harry felt his eyebrows rising.
He barked a laugh and spun toward the door as Narcissa knocked, waving it open. Tom took his non-answer and pinned it in his thoughts. An exclamation point. Unsure if he meant yes or no.
The Malfoy Matriarch seemed more and more bewildered by them. Harry, reclined on a chaise wrapped in a Lethifold, the Dark Lord standing with his face exposed and grinning like an absolute madman.
"…My Lord," she bowed and stayed there until he spoke.
"Percy Weasley."
"Yes, my Lord." She was dressed in combats, though Harry didn't think that she was expendable enough to fight. A precaution, Tom assumed.
"She always looks like she wants to ask you a million questions," Harry said.
"Because she has questions," Voldemort wasn't looking at Narcissa when he shooed her, "She knows not to ask. Unlike others."
"Others? You mean there's people asking you questions other than me?" He hadn't meant to talk quite as fast as he did.
The Dark Lord smiled again, less crazy, "He is quite envious, isn't he?"
"Very possessive," Tom said, in English, smirking and thrilled with himself, heat flushing him, making him sweat.
Harry scowled, "I am not; I'm not possessive; I've never seen anyone asking you a bunch of questions; when would you even get the time? Is what what I- what I meant." He pursed his lips at Tom's amusement, "…Fine, I'd… I'm maybe a little bit..."
"A little bit," Tom repeated, measuring the 'little bit' with his forefinger and thumb, smirk in place, eyes hooded.
Harry shrugged, uncomfortable. He cast a Tempus, green instead of drawing his wand. Just after ten in the morning.
Percy Weasley wasn't spoken to, the Dark Lord invaded his mind. Judging by the amount of time Voldemort spent in his head, it was an extensive inspection. Percy was shaking like a leaf when he was directed out, bottom lip quivering.
Voldemort had carried out the Legilimency with his face exposed, and Harry hadn't expected the jealousy. The Dark Lord's face felt like it belonged to him. A well-kept secret that he knew intimately. Tom nurtured the feeling by washing him in adoration, loudly, almost obnoxiously finding Harry's jealously adorable.
He was blushing when he asked, "Find anything?"
"He is far outside the Order. Nothing of use." Voldemort answered in English and sat down heavily beside him—making him yank his legs out of the way. The Dark Lord held his face in his hands and scoffed. "Had I dealt with this efficiently before-"
Tom interrupted him, "If you could have predicted it, if you had a warning, you would have ignored it. You cannot help it. It is in your nature."
The Dark Lord didn't blow up, which Harry thought was odd, because Tom was apparently trying to light all his fuses. He oozed confidence, though, so Harry let him work.
"What is?" Genuinely asking, leaning in.
"Single-minded obsession," Tom gently dragged him in by the chin when he was close enough, stroking his jaw to break contact and prevent the bliss, murmuring in the serpent tongue, "So intense you can't see anything else."
"And yet you can focus? You don't…" He realised he was being drawn up between Harry's legs and stopped, though he let Tom hold his face.
"Make no mistake, I am single-mindedly obsessed." Tom chuckled quietly, "Anything he wants. Anything he needs—I will do. I will get them back. I will kill every single member of the Order if I have to. It was an excellent idea to have me execute them." As he ran his hand up his jaw and into his hair, Voldemort dropped his head on Harry's abdomen, nearly winding him.
The Dark Lord tensed and relaxed over and over, muscles spasming. His face buried on Harry's stomach, arms tight around his middle, squeezing. Tom ran his hands through his hair—soft curls tingling between his fingers like silk, somersaulting his insides—and grinned at the ornate ceiling. Harry noticed the Dark Lord was holding his breath.
He'd almost gone limp—barely breathing—by the time another knock shocked Voldemort to standing. He fixed his hair rapidly, and he looked scared. Maybe sad. He blinked at the ground for an instant before his expression cleared. "Once she is returned to me, I'm…" In English, accent heavy. "…I'm killing the thing in my head." He nodded as he said it, trying to convict himself, not meeting Harry's eyes and ignoring the door.
"So you say," Tom said, swallowing rage. It tinted his words anyway. "Harry will be mortal. Vulnerable."
"If you attempt to sabotage her rescue…"
"I'd already assumed as much. Already assumed you'd opted to keep your heart in your chest and your mind in your skull to get her back. Already assumed you know that without 'the thing in your head', you'd sabotage yourself. That without me—without Harry—you'd sabotage yourself. It makes no difference to me whether you admit it, so don't fucking argue with me," Tom held up a hand when Voldemort opened his mouth, "I would not sabotage her rescue. I love her."
The Dark Lord gasped like he'd sworn in a church and shook his head vehemently. Harry wondered if the tantrum was finally coming on. There was another knock at the door, more tentative than the first. "I want this done with." Half English, half Parseltongue, through gritted teeth.
Tom had purposefully sucker punched him with the word 'love'. Angry at the accusation and the threat, satisfied when it hit hard. "So do I."
Eugenia and Cedrum were told that their children would be marked in private in order for them to aid in the effort of retrieving the kidnapped. At Harry's command. Widrich didn't seem to love the idea but didn't object. When he looked at Harry, he seemed tired and accusing. He didn't blame the necromancer. Tom was stuck on the Dark Lord's insistence that he would kill Crux, but the idea of having his own marked perked him up relentlessly.
It was growing on Harry, too.
Getting the Dark Lord back to the chaise lounge had taken some coaxing, but Tom managed it. A combination of pretending he didn't care what Voldemort did with their remaining spare hour and encouraging Harry to look cute and comfortable—which he felt made him immediately more awkward if anything. Successful anyway.
Voldemort's head on his lap, the man breathing entirely manually. Manually and poorly. Several times, Harry was hit with the urge to tell him to breathe. Instead, he listened to Tom think.
Piecing together the Dark Lord's motives while he stroked his hair. Thoughts racing and interspersed with bubbles of bliss that he tried to avoid. Tom concluded in under ten minutes that it was—as usual—a crippling fear of love that moved Voldemort. In general, but specifically and especially when it came to Harry. For Tom, the obsession had come first. Rapidly thereafter, he loved Harry with an intensity that had nearly broken him.
The Dark Lord knew what was next and aimed to destroy his Horcrux rather than feel it.
With the love came a heavy, inescapable, all-encompassing guilt. One that Tom could carry only because Harry loved and forgave him. A method that Tom decided would be far more difficult to employ with Voldemort. Resistant to the idea that Harry could love or forgive him and conditioned in a thousand ways to believe he didn't deserve it.
So Harry rolled the Dark Lord's curls between his fingers—fairly certain he was asleep, breathing evenly on his stomach—and frowned.
Harry managed to get the Dark Lord to eat an early lunch—He'd startled awake at nothing half an hour later, confused, bleary-eyed, with an imprint of Harry's buttons running up his left cheek—It wasn't much, but it was the first time he'd convinced to eat more than once a day, so he considered it a win and a relief.
Tom was preoccupied with finding a way to convince Voldemort that it was safe to love Harry back and that he was worthy—though Tom didn't believe it at all, he still didn't believe it to be true of himself, working to prove it. Harry thought there was nothing left to prove, but he was Tom Riddle, and there would be no convincing him of it. Therein lay the problem. A repeated catch twenty-two. Still terrified that Harry would come to his 'Senses' and realise his love and forgiveness were misplaced.
Not convinced Voldemort would ever be worthy or willing. Tom spent the three-minute walk from the observatory to the entrance hall, cursing his newfound self-awareness and the Dark Lord's resistance in equal measure. Which wasn't even to start on the threat of fusion, something Voldemort was clear he would rather die than endure.
'You are worthy, you know. You've done enough. You'd done enough a while ago.' Harry thought, and Tom batted the thought away with denial that he was self-aware enough to notice. Not enough to acknowledge it.
He stood beside Voldemort—sat in the high-backed heavy chair, masked and hooded—blushing and frowning and fighting a smirk all at once.
'…I appreciate that you think so,' Tom thought. After his inner monologue had ripped Harry's words apart and declared them impossible, 'You are too forgiving.'
'I forgive you, anyway.' Harry didn't think he was 'Too forgiving.'
There were ten Death Eaters in the hall, stationed at each door. They were early for the marking. Though he hadn't said anything, Harry could feel the Dark Lord's discomfort. In Harry's opinion, giving them the ability to mark after he'd exploded at Drumlanrig was a practically incomprehensible move.
Tom was having trouble with it, too. He kept concluding that the Dark Lord had convinced himself that it was indeed temporary and necessary. Tom thought it was neither.
Crux was in his head before Tom had fully deconstructed Voldemort's reasoning, still working through possibilities when he entered.
'…Pretty obvious?' Crux picked up their thoughts. 'He wants an equal. More than that, he wants a better. Someone to lord over him. Lord under him. Wants it to be you,' he said 'you' like it was hilarious, 'He doesn't know that, of course. Unaware. Terrified. Sick to his stomach. But it's been rattling around in his head. Congratulations.'
Tom was more nervous than congratulated.
'Oh, yeah, it'll bust him up. And I'm gonna make sure he's aware of it.' Crux continued, sensing Tom's nerves.
'We would be better off focusing on reducing his fear of love,' Tom thought.
Crux laughed, 'Oh, no. I'm not taking that route. You're free to try. I'll undo whatever you do, though. Don't be scared.'
Harry exhaled, and Tom rocked on his heels, nervous energy with nowhere to go.
"Can we duel tonight? I know time is… I really want a fight," Harry asked, Parseltongue and quiet.
"I have something else in mind."
Harry's Horcrux giggled at the Dark Lord's words, and Tom assumed he meant executions. Harry decided that wouldn't be a fight, so it wasn't what he wanted.
'Not executions. Well. Yes, executions, first.' Crux thought. 'You're doing great, princess. Keep doing Dark Lord things, and we'll have him on his knees together, hmm?'
He was gone before Harry could react. Far redder in the face than he had been beforehand. 'I don't like it when he calls me princess.'
Tom decided that wasn't true.
'…Can we go back to hiding some of this somewhere? What the fuck I don't like it, like it.' Again, Tom decided that Harry was trying to lie to himself.
'…Tom, knock it off.'
'Sorry.' He didn't sound sorry. His continuous monologue confirmed he wasn't. 'Sorry.' He thought again. Again, not actually sorry.
Harry rolled his eyes. The wide double doors opened, and one hundred unmarked Death Eaters filed in. Black hooded robes. Unmasked.
Narcissa at the head of them. Voldemort waited for his followers to gather and the doors to close before he stood. There was nothing less confident in his stance, no outward hint that he was uncomfortable. Harry could almost feel his fear wafting through the thread that bound them.
Tom stood perfectly still, arms behind his back. He stayed beside the chair and slowly ran his eyes over the faces, committing them to memory while his heartbeat shook his vision. A large part of him was expecting the Dark Lord to change his mind. To turn and Crucio him without warning.
Instead, he amplified his voice and addressed the hall, "Our enemy has grown in number and arrogance. No longer a simple nuisance. We are at war. You have been chosen to bear my mark," he paused and almost turned to look at Harry, "And do as I bid." The Dark Lord paused again, and Harry felt his nausea.
Or maybe he was nauseous. Stomach churning acid.
"There is but one other who can recreate my mark." Voldemort did sound like he was going to throw up. There was definite disgust in his voice. It wasn't all disgust, though. He turned to Harry and gestured him forward with two fingers, eyes nearly wild; Elder wand pressed to his throat. "In the interest of my limited time, I have chosen to take advantage of this."
Harry felt like his head might burst; struggling to inhale was making it worse. Tom was no help because he felt no better. High on the moment and terrified at once.
"Half of you will be marked by Harry Potter today. Four hundred and fifty more besides." A murmur ran through the hall, and Voldemort watched Harry in favour of turning to face them. "Make no mistake, Potter is under my command."
Harry sensed the Dark Lord was giving him a queue to fall to his knees in worship of all that Voldemort represented.
Tom stepped past him, raised his arm and summoned the curse with the force of a bomb. Effectively silencing the crowd. The light rapidly blacked out above their heads. He formed the skull and snake within it, screaming silently at the crowd. He lowered it until some of them yelped in fear, ducking. He let it loom for a moment, connected to his left wrist. The sensation second only to the bliss. Clearing his head almost as efficiently.
There was dead quiet when Tom let the darkness go.
The crowd shifted until the Dark Lord spoke again, something in his voice almost giving him away, "Come forward. Leave the hall once you have received your mark."
Tom had almost expected some of them to walk out—either because of the curse or because Harry was marking—but none did. There was a brief hesitation before there was an organised scramble to be first. Harry's pulse had his hands shaking. He hadn't noticed Tom draw the Snakewood wand.
The Dark Lord had marked two in the time it took for Harry to step forward. The first one didn't yelp, but the second one did.
'…Do you want to do it?' Tom wondered, Snakewood wand pressed to a blue-eyed man's arm. 'I want you to mark the first one,' he added, atthe same time as his inner thoughts announced the desire. 'Morsmorde Stigma,' he thought, when he realised Harry didn't remember the incantation.
Harry figured he couldn't hesitate for much longer and spoke the incantation in Parseltongue. He gave the man a look that he hoped was apology enough, but he didn't flinch. Hit with the urge to ask: "What's your name?"
"Uh, Tannon Ballard." He said. He seemed extremely confused.
Harry felt he could relate. He looked down at the mark, and Tom gasped. They'd already drawn Voldemort's attention, more so by gasping. Harry's mark couldn't strictly be called a 'Dark' Mark—a very relaxed snake atop a golden skull.
'Beautiful. Of course, you made it beautiful,' Tom thought.
The Dark Lord loomed over his shoulder, not reacting outwardly. "…Hurry up."
Harry got mixed signals when Voldemort continued standing behind him.
'I want you to mark the rest,' Tom thought.
Harry didn't think the mark would be any different if Tom created it. Their cores and minds wereso intertwined there was barely a difference between them—no way to tell where Harry ended and Tom began. Tom had come to the same conclusion and wanted him to do it anyway.
Nearly blinded by Tom's adoration and fighting giggles, he marked the next one. A dark-haired, dark-eyed man named Leander Decker.
Harry kept asking their names—Pericles Cimber, Petra Minck, Harper Spence, Wolfgang Thimmensch—Until the Dark Lord told him to stop in Parseltongue. He'd returned to marking his own, signalled by their hissing and yelping.
Harry took anything said in the serpent tongue to be more of a suggestion than a command, so he kept asking, faster and quieter.
Tom asked the sixth—a man named Józef Sołtys—if the mark had hurt. Not a single one had flinched or cried out. At least two had been surprised. When Józef confirmed it hadn't, the Dark Lord was behind Harry once more.
"…What does it feel like?" Tom asked.
"Warm?" The man was watching Voldemort as he answered, nervous, so Tom dismissed him.
"Golden and painless," Tom said in the serpent tongue, smug and smitten, practically drunk with it.
"Get it done," the Dark Lord said, breathy Parseltongue betraying him.
By nightfall they'd marked six hundred. Three hundred of them Harry's. An unending parade of Death Eaters interspersed with short breaks, Narcissa bringing more as the hall emptied. Not the most efficient process. Harry and the Dark Lord both were antsy by the end of it, fluctuating between flirting and arguing. He'd stopped asking names, but Tom had committed faces to memory.
The first hundred were given the task of spreading word that Harry would be marking. Voldemort didn't like repeating himself. Tom was already working on ways to ask for more than five hundred. Surely, time was of the essence.
The Dark Lord had the Unspeakable brought to him in the observatory and requested that she gather everything she could find on tracking without any trace of magic, something she'd paused at. He then had her take his blood, which had Harry questioning his sanity. Already half-drained and not replenished. He refused Replenishers, insisting it was 'better' that way.
He'd been brought back to the Dark Lord's pseudo-office afterwards and directed to bathe and change into all-black robes. Simple black crystal buttons ran up to his neck.
When he stepped out of the bathroom, the Dark Lord was waiting in the doorway. Unmasked. His mood was all over the place. His face was schooled but his emotions flashed in his eyes like a slideshow, rapidly cycling, standing in his way and staring at him.
"Hood up," he said it in Parseltongue so Harry repeated it in English for Bed Sheet, the hood of the Lethifold rising to coo beside his ears.
Voldemort grazed Harry's cheek with the back of his hand, almost staring through him.
He didn't move, holding his breath until warm sparks of bliss spread through his jaw and weakened his knees. A half mask was summoned on Harry's face as Voldemort stepped back.
"If you require a potion, now is the time to take it." The Dark Lord didn't want his executioner to show weakness.
Harry considered the potions in his pocket and thought that he was far more likely to act an idiot with Voldemort's blood in his system. Conversely, he wasn't sure if he was capable of murdering without reacting in a way that the Dark Lord considered unsavoury.
"…I don't know."
Voldemort had requested that Narcissa prepare eight hostages for the night. Tom had already claimed the executions, confident he had it in hand. Harry was certain that he did. He was also almost sure he had it, too, angry and probably experienced enough.
He didn't take a potion. The Dark Lord—masked and hooded, as Harry was—led him back to the entrance hall, and Harry was almost sick of the sight of it, bored and incredibly agitated. A juxtaposition in his head that made him long for unconsciousness. Tired and wired. He wanted to be wrapped in the bliss and never think about the rest of it again; the Dark Lord's empire felt like more of a pain in the ass than anything else. Though marking, in theory, was a sign that the Dark Lord was giving in, and, also in theory, he enjoyed the concept—what it meant—it was boring.
Tom disagreed, thrilled with the unexpected outcomes of Harry's spectacular public outburst. Rabid at the prospect of a visible path forward, overjoyed that Voldemort had finally begun to relent, despite his continued apprehension. Nearly deranged at the thought of commanding his marked. Harry's marked.
The kidnappings and deaths had been the trade-off. Annoyingly at the back of Tom's thoughts. Annoyingly at the back of Harry's thoughts.
Unable to summon an appropriate response. There was anger, but it was disproportionate. Blinded by love and wanting nothing more than to bask in it.
"How long do you think this will take?" Harry asked in Parseltongue once the Dark Lord was seated at the head of the hall.
"…How long will it take you?" Voldemort pressed his wand to his mark, and Harry wondered how it worked.
He didn't get a lot of time to think about it; Narcissa descended the spiral stairs, followed by three masked Death Eaters and eight prisoners. The sight ended Harry's boredom. Silenced with their arms bound behind their backs. No one he recognised.
He wasn't sure what would happen when it was someone he did know. Thankfully not a question he had to answer right then. It was possible they didn't know who he was, masked beside the Dark Lord. One of them was glaring at Voldemort with a laser focus. The rest shook, sobbing silently, trying to speak.
Harry kept his hands tight behind his back and his teeth clenched. He could hear distant pops of Apparition like rain on a faraway roof. Shortly after, the doors revealed around fifty Death Eaters, anonymous. He wondered if he should have taken a potion.
Voldemort didn't stand to address them, wand pressed to his throat, "I have heard whispers. Questioning my reasoning and the loyalty of… One particular Death Eater."
Harry couldn't look anywhere but him, hostages forgotten, Death Eaters forgotten, eyes locked on his.
"I will not be questioned. However, I have kept this Death Eater's true loyalty largely confidential. How could I expect you, my followers, to see him as he is, to know where his loyalties lie," he gestured at Harry, head to toe, "Without seeing him as he is?"
Heart like a trapped bird, he waited for a cue.
"To that end, I introduce him as my executioner."
There were one or two brave incredulous noises from the crowd. Followed immediately by a curious buzz. A tightening of the room, Death Eaters drawing closer. Tom held them perfectly still as Tom watched the Dark Lord's followers, eyes slowly trailing to the prisoners on their knees.
"Should I kill them one by one or all at once?" Harry asked in Parseltongue.
The Dark Lord laughed, amplified by his wand. "He asks if he should kill them one by one or all at once." He laughed again, swayed in his seat and corrected himself, "Do what you will."
"…Are you hungry, Bed Sheet?" He whispered the question into his hood, his hands numb. The Lethifold was well-fed, but he didn't refuse, free from his shoulders at the suggestion. Revealing Harry's hair, but he didn't think it would make a lick of difference. The Death Eaters knew who he was. His hidden identity was a formality for the courts, Tom had told him. The 'plausible deniability' he suggested to the Dark Lord was sticking well enough.
Bed Sheet descended on the one that had been staring. A man in his mid-forties. Gnarled face. He was eaten slow, the Lethifold more casual than usual. Forcing him gracefully to the stones, eldritch humming and shocked muttering filled the hall.
'All at once,' Harry decided, keen to get it over with, watching the blood pool like he was on another planet.
'Of course,' Tom thought, dark in his mind, rearing shadows, almost intoxicating.
Tom didn't draw his wand, instead he summoned the curse. Slowly trailing from his fingers, ink-black electrified viridian green. Seven threads that he drove gradually into the throats of the hostages.
Harry felt the darkness sever arteries, collapse windpipes, and twist through vertebrae. Ripping in silence until they fell upon each other like discarded bleeding dolls.
He couldn't hear the crowd anymore, not through the buzz in his eardrums. Maybe the buzz was them. The Dark Lord was beside Harry; he felt him before he saw him. When Bed Sheet returned to his shoulders he was presented with a Portkey that he took without question.
They reappeared outside Hogwarts but didn't stay there; Voldemort threw the invisibility cloak over both of them, took his arm, and Disapparated. A loud crack. Harry assumed, with a fizzing skull, that the sound had something to do with his repeated blood loss.
The realisation was instant and stretched at once. A curving, snowless street. Warm orange streetlights set slightly too far apart. Identical two-story row houses, cream brick, brown roofs, manicured, frosted lawns. Perfect uniformity. And he couldn't breathe, gripping the Dark Lord's arm too tight. Sliding to the bitumen anyway, struggling with blurred blue vision and the strange laugh caught in his throat at the sight of number four, Privet Drive.
His hand was in his pocket, probably at Tom's command, uncorked a potion and downed it, clipping it on Harry's mask. Warm bliss bloomed instantly from his neck to his stomach.
Tom was far clearer than Harry. He straightened his breathing and used Voldemort's arm to pull himself back up.
"…What- what are we doing here?" His body vibrated despite the warmth.
"What would you do to them, Harry? Without consequence?" The Dark Lord asked.
He could see them through the living room window. Lit by the glow of the TV. Vernon was red in the face about something. Maybe laughing, like Harry suddenly was. "Why?" He tried again.
Shocked didn't cover it.
His head still reeled at the reality of taking eight lives in rapid succession, a strange realisation that he would have to sit down to calculate how many deaths he was responsible for. He'd lost track. More murders than he had fingers to count on.
There would be three more before the night was over. Tom was resolute. Drinking in the scene behind the glass with a growing mania. He moved them closer under the cloak, almost at the window, boots in the mulch of Petunia's garden, repeatedly swallowing too much saliva, unblinking.
"…Why would you bring him here?" Tom asked, "Why would you bring him here if not because-"
"I am merely curious."
"Curious…?" Tom noted the way the Dark Lord shook just slightly—still in his grip from Apparition—the way his eyes were locked on the Dursleys the same way his had been, a mixture of heady excitement and undiluted rage. Not simply curious. Ravenous. Premeditated.
He knew it because he felt it. Harry felt it too, a rawness to his nerves, intimate with it; enough to know it would become an all-encompassing shock the instant the adrenaline ceased.
Harry led them to the entrance without input from his brain, removed his mask and blasted the door open, deafening in the quiet of the evening, bound to draw attention. Irrelevant. He darted out from under the cloak, leaving Voldemort under it.
Wand in hand, he watched it dawn on them. That Harry Potter was in their living room again. A momentary furious annoyance on Petunia and Vernon's faces.
As they took him in, it became fear, a quick transition. He found he relished it. Nearly certain they understood from the look on his face. Manic, hilarious rage. Bolstered by the thrum of bliss in his stomach, by the thread that bound him to the Dark Lord—behind him, invisible. He came to stand beside Harry and removed the cloak, leisurely about it.
"…What are you doing here, boy?" Vernon was the first to dare. "Who are you?!" Directed at Voldemort. He ignored it.
"I just wanna talk," he felt delirious. "Sit down at the table. Get up. I said get up!" Harry nodded when they stood.
He moved them at wandpoint and Dudley had already pissed himself. Crying and shaking as he took a seat at the table.
Petunia tried to soothe him, vibrating hand across the distance. She couldn't reach him and he didn't move for her.
More adrenaline than blood in Harry's veins.
"…Harry," Petunia tried, and his name in her mouth made his skin white hot, flushed with sweat instantly.
The rage would have blinded him if not for Tom's resolution—he kept him steady, and the Dark Lord's blood was working wonders in his gut, so Harry smiled. "Petunia. They told me my parents died in a car crash. Can you believe that, Voldemort?"
"Do I look like a car wreck to you?" The Dark Lord asked Petunia.
Harry laughed, "Debatable. Is that a trick question?"
"…You will leave here at once; you won't intimidate me in my own home," Vernon once again attempted bravado, cut low by his piss-soaked son and the way he didn't leave his chair.
Crux tapped on his skull, and Harry was hit with the urge to roll his eyes at Voldemort.
Laughter rang in his head, 'Oh my god, what are you going to do? Are you going to cook for them? Are you taking suggestions?'
"I am intimidating you in your own home," Harry said.
The Dark Lord repaired the door and cast wards.
Locked in.
"How dare you-" Vernon was driving him insane.
"Imperio," Harry stood him up and walked him up the stairs. "…You'll be in your room. Making no noise and pretending you don't exist."
O!O!O!O!OO!O!O!O!OO!O!O!O!OO!O!O!O!OO!O!O!O!OO!O!O!O!OO!O!O!O!O
He dropped the Imperius as he barred the door. Vernon yelled on the other side, beating beefy fists on the thin wood—reinforced with magic—then on the walls, then on the window. Harry heard the glass shatter and wondered if his massive uncle would throw himself out the window and save him the trouble.
The crying downstairs and the thin strand of fate that bound him to the dark Lord took him back into the living room.
Tom kicked the leg of Dudley's chair as soon as he stepped off the stairs, breaking it out from under him, sneering when he crashed to the ground. Crying and crawling away. Tom was running through scenarios, what he thought Harry could handle.
'Potion is pretty good, huh? Pretty good.' Crux thought, 'Do your worst, Harry.'
'Can you… Go away?'
'Always mean to me. Fine. You should make her eat her little piggy son.' He was gone, leaving a visceral mental image of exactly that as he went—something he'd never done before.
Dudley crawled uselessly away, his fear rendering his body ridiculous. Uncooperative.
Petunia didn't know where to put herself, her arms rattling as she reached for Dudley, mouth open, eyes wide, like a grenade had gone off in the living room. Harry's brain felt the same. Aware that he hated the room he was in. The people he was looking at. Like the doilies, lace curtains, and wallpaper were sneaking up on him. The framed photos on the walls and shelves and mantles mocked him. Itching too deep to scratch it without clawing off his skin, Petunia's face, Dudley's noises, and the way the house smelled—like years of his life—was fizzing undiluted rage all through him.
'I'm here, I'm with you, they'll pay in pain,' Tom's thoughts were turning feral, still soft in the centre, reserved for Harry alone.
"Take your mask off," Harry demanded in Parseltongue. Unsure why he wanted it, demanding anyway.
The Dark Lord lazed on a wall, arms crossed over his chest. He occasionally glanced out the window, otherwise watching Harry. He waved a hand and vanished his anonymity. His expression was another mask.
"…If you can outrun me Dudley, I'll let you live," Harry watched his cousin comprehend his words and shook his head when Voldemort raised his eyebrow at the front door.
Dudley went for it, graceless and unsuccessful, stuck fast with magic. Harry's heart was pounding in his chest and head, but it felt far away. Outside him. The Dark Lord's mind poured into his like water, and he almost welcomed it. Watched inside his skull, Voldemort working through his memories of number four Privet Drive.
"Harry, please," Petunia's voice nearly startled him.
"Shut up." An automatic response. Frozen in place with the image of feeding Dudley to Petunia seared in his mind's eye.
His cousin gave up on the front door and went for the back. Petunia stood up with her hands raised, and Harry shoved her down. The back exit yielded the same results, so Dudley scrambled up the stairs, howling. Vernon yelled out the window for someone to call the police.
'Did you silence…?' He wondered, the thought caught in his head like it was filled with tar.
There was a smash upstairs, followed by a thud on the front lawn. He hadn't expected Dudley to jump. Screaming in the yard.
'The house is silenced.'
Harry took Voldemort's thoughts to mean the front wasn't. Tom moved to retrieve Dudley. Imperioed back in because he'd broken a leg, and Harry wasn't about to pick him up. He felt like he was dreaming. Fevered and soothed and unreal.
His cousin was bleeding from his side, had landed on a shard of glass, light blue polo shirt turning crimson, crying and reeking on the floor.
"I'm going to kill him, Petunia. Then I'm going to kill Vernon. Then I'll kill you." Harry heard his own voice—he knew it wasn't Tom who'd said it—but it was alien.
There was nothing more he wanted to say to her. He searched for more words and didn't find them.
She didn't respond, and he wondered if he'd even said it; seconds felt like hours. The Dark Lord didn't silence Dudley, whimpering for his mother, disassociated in her seat, gripping the ugly tablecloth.
The sight of Dudley on the beige carpet didn't elicit sympathy. Or empathy. Or regret. He searched for it briefly until Tom assured him it wasn't there, gently guiding him to what was.
An overwhelming desire to kick him and kick him and kick him and kick him and kick him until he was quiet. Rennervate him and do it again. Straddle his chest and squeeze his throat until he went limp, burst the blood vessels in his eyes, drink the fear out of them, let his throat go, Rennervate him, and do it again. And then again. Punch him three times in the centre of his features. Have his hands weakly slap at Harry's forearms, at his face. Choke him again. Turn his cheeks purple, make his eyes roll back, Rennervate him, do it again. Push his thumbs into his eyes and press, press, press until they burst, spurting blood.
Harry gasped and then cackled at the realisation that what he wanted and what he was doing were one and the same. Laughing in his head and outside his head and in Dudley's rasping bloody mangled face. Loud screaming rendered him deaf. He didn't know who was screaming.
Petunia was held at wandpoint in her seat by a wide-eyed Dark Lord.
He stood to look in her face, searched it for so long she stopped looking real. Face drenched and red and horrified.
He wordlessly Crucioed her, fully aware that even an instant of his toxic magic would cleave her mind in two. And that was what he wanted. A sharp animal wail that left her eyes rolling in their sockets.
He then dragged his overlarge cousin to the cupboard under the stairs, ripping his destroyed shirt, around his neck like a noose. Magic forgotten—manual with Dudley.
Voldemort brought Petunia, sobbing and twisting in his outstretched grip. His awareness was half in Harry's head and half in his own.
"My Horcrux said I should make her eat him," Harry said. Voice weird. Confirming his thoughts aloud.
Voldemort smiled. It didn't reach his eyes. "I suppose you do know the demon."
He opened the cupboard and Rennervated Dudley. He vomited, flailing soundlessly, rasping. Harry shoved him face first, revolted, and shut the door. Locked it against the sound of renewed, muffled crying and vomiting and begging and pleading for the mother who couldn't seem to hear him.
Petunia was lost—wailing at the ceiling and falling all over the hallway. Still held by Voldemort, though he looked to be about to drop her.
"I did say that I knew him," Harry muttered, confident if he didn't hear, he'd hear the thought.
Eyes fused to his as he raised his arm and lit the cupboard on fire. Slow, creeping green flames.
He couldn't look at Voldemort and feel him in his head and his soul and his heart and in the air he was breathing and anticipate the fire chewing through Dudley fucking Dursley at the same time, so he closed his eyes, the only thing he could control, feeling his way through the walls with flame. Seeking and listening, tilting his head when the blaze penetrated, crying becoming squealing.
Petunia had gone quiet, a thump on the carpet. Hands on Harry's face, cupping his jaw. Warm sunlight soaked into his skin, blooming from his centre, liquid light. Morphing every desire and thought in his head into a single want. Eyelids too heavy to open, legs locked so he didn't buckle, he took the Dark Lord's wrist in hand and sucked his pulse. Traced his tongue along the heat—always too hot—whimpering into him, world falling away, strange silence.
When Voldemort withdrew, Harry nearly fell with him—snapped back into the moment with a rattling starkness. Tom took another potion from his pocket and drained it. He had to brace on the wall, the scene before him sharp.
Petunia on the carpet, drenched in sweat, unconscious. The cupboard burned languidly, flames dancing silently, smooth like a running stream. Quiet upstairs. Laughter caught in his neck, hysterical. Voldemort missing all his masks, dark and ravenous.
Harry watched him Rennervate Petunia with his tongue between his teeth. Wild in his head despite the way the bliss softened him. Voldemort examined every thought as it occurred.
His aunt opened her mouth at the cupboard, a near-silent scream, frantic and weeping; she put her hands in the fire and scrambled with the red-hot handle.
"He's dead, Petunia," Tom told her.
She tried to speak, but it was slurred beyond recognition. Weeping at her burnt, shaking arms.
The flames were creeping up the stairs. The darkness in his head expanding—most of it Tom's, but a healthy amount belonged to Harry—almost foreign, as intoxicating as the relentless bliss rocking his balance.
Crux's idea still burned into his retinas, less insane the more he thought about it. Tom and the Dark Lord examined the thoughts as they came, dissecting his sanity.
'…I can make her hungry.'
Harry cackled at Voldemort's thought, drowning out Petunia's crying, sliding down the wall and fairly sure he'd lost his mind; "I want to do it." In Parseltongue.
'Ieiunium Fame,' as soon as the Dark Lord thought the incantation, Harry drew his wand.
"No food for a week, Aunt Petunia," then in the serpent tongue, "Ieiunium Fame."
Immediate. Her cheeks sunk in, bones protruding, swaying on her knees, groaning. It looked like far more than a week of starvation. Not simple hunger. Wild dead eyes.
Harry only needed to think it for the flames to snuff out.
'Are you certain you want to do this?' Tom did want to do it. Searching fervently for any sign of denial in Harry's head.
He'd been trying to get off the ground, but he found that it was incredibly difficult to reverse the process once he was there. Voldemort pulled him to his feet, and searched his eyes, though he was in his head. Every thought exposed like nerve endings bright-hot in his head.
"Yeah I'm gonna do it. Are you hungry Petunia?" He didn't know how he was keeping his voice steady. Tom's doing. Maybe the Dark Lord's. Or the potions. Maybe it was him.
All the little fantasies neglected in his head, the ideas that would flutter during sleepless nights under the stairs, in his room, in the Gryffindor tower. Squashed back where they came from. Just ideas, nothing more. Sick desires that he'd sworn didn't represent him. Nursed for seconds at a time and forced back where they came from. Excused as a result of his upbringing.
They were him, though; they were his ideas and desires and fantasies that he'd drowned under an image carefully crafted for public consumption. So, he opened the smoking cupboard door with a flick of his wrist and scooped his aunt off the floor. Waif of a thing. Probably starving.
"I made you dinner. One last time. You never say thank you."
She was fighting him, but he was on a second wind, brain electric at the sight of Dudley, skin blackened, clothes burnt off, charred and inhuman and making him gag. He let her fall forward anyway. His mania rinsed his disgust, and Tom's hyper-focus was his.
She put her hands on Dudley's chest and shoved him, the smell overwhelming—like popcorn and charred meat and burning wood and carpet and hair and vomit and piss—and it looked like she was mourning him, wailing—unlike anything he'd ever heard—until she ripped a chunk of him free—not easily, but easier than he'd expected. Maybe she was stronger than he thought—with blackened hands, she brought the meat to her mouth.
Harry was dragged, vomiting and kicking out the front door.
Dunked into the silence of the street. Blood-red projectile vomit on the doorstep, jarring because he didn't think he'd consumed any blood, but there was blood on his hands, and he couldn't recall how it had gotten there. Then he remembered the potions.
"Come," the Dark Lord was still moving him away.
And someone was laughing so loud. So loud he felt it in his throat. He resisted, not done yet, not done until it was rubble. He was fine—apart from the spewing. An automatic response to disgust, he thought.
He was revolted but it was distant like the rest of it. "I'm fine," he said when he felt overly watched inside and outside his head. He didn't say, 'For now.'
The Dark Lord replaced their masks. The windows upstairs were shattered, smoke creeping out—Vernon quiet. Harry couldn't see him. He raised his arms and razed the house to fragments, ripping brick, crushing glass and plasterboard and ugly wallpaper, sweet agony creeping up to his shoulders, laughing harder—nearly buckled on the lawn. He squeezed his family to a pulp when he found them. Vernon had already been dead, though Harry hadn't touched him—a heart attack, Tom decided, static in his head.
Harry launched at the Dark Lord and Disapparated them both.
O!O!O!O!OO!O!O!O!OO!O!O!O!OO!O!O!O!OO!O!O!O!OO!O!O!O!OO!O!O!O!O
He didn't have a destination in mind, not consciously. Just away. Drenched in sweat, too hot to be wearing a Lethifold. Ankle deep in snow that he was tempted to fall into. He asked Bed Sheet off silently and fought the strangled laughter.
"Why did you take me there?" Harry registered the yew trees and realised he'd brought them to the woods outside Little Hangleton.
"I want to ask you again, Harry, if you revel in what you've become?" Voldemort asked in Parseltongue.
"Take your mask off. Answer my question." Vibrating with adrenaline.
"I thought it would be good for you to visit your relatives." He removed his mask and then Harry's.
Harry laughed so hard he had to brace on a tree. Multiple thoughts competing, the Dark Lord still in his head. "…Oh, shit." Were the only words that would come out of his mouth in response.
What he'd just done was vivid in his head and supernaturally removed at once.
"…Do you relish what you have become? What I have created?"
It was easy enough for the predatory rage-relief to be redirected at Voldemort. Automatic. "Do you relish what I've made you?" His mouth metallic and acidic, throat raw from the bile, the blood, the laughter.
The small clearing was lit by a nearly full moon; the skeletal trees allowed the pale glow in, the Dark Lord's face visible enough even under his hood.
"Get on your knees," Harry said when Voldemort didn't answer.
He watched the Dark Lord's lips twitch, a smile or distaste; he wasn't sure. A flicker too fast in the darkness.
"You forget who you are speaking to-"
Harry laughed and caught Voldemort's throat with the curse, snapped it like a whip, and pulled him to his knees with no resistance. Made him crawl forward on his knees in the snow.
A manic grin on Harry's face, rolling against the tree, desperate not to fall down. "Why did you take me out of the house?"
The Dark Lord had one hand on Harry's thigh, fingers digging in, hard enough to bruise. The other at his own throat, hand in the curse. "…I can't have you breaking your mind." Hushed and husky in Parseltongue.
Rage in Voldemort's eyes, like always, fear—usual too—and a desire that Harry thought maybe matched his own, intoxicating to look at. On his knees while Tom rapidly worked the buttons of Harry's pants with numb, bloody fingers.
Harry laughed at his answer—very much broken in the mind, he thought, far too late to call himself mentally whole—only fading adrenaline held him upright, the bliss waning in his middle on account of forcefully ejecting the potions. What he wanted was crystal clear in his thoughts and his actions, but he said it aloud anyway, relishing the Dark Lord's face when he did:
"I wanna fuck your mouth."
The Dark Lord joined Tom in undoing his buttons. Harry laughed again, moaning already, one arm wrapped around the tree behind him so he didn't collapse. One hand twisted tight in Voldemort's hair after he'd flicked his hood off—pulled him closer when the freezing air hit his cock.
Harry gasped when he opened his mouth and gasped again when he felt his tongue. He watched with laser focus, the desire in the Dark Lord's eyes, the heat of his mouth. The moan that vibrated around his cock had his hips push him to the hilt; fingers coiled in his hair. Euphoria pulsing in his abdomen, bled up his arm.
The second thrust made Voldemort gag, moaning, tears caught on his lashes—so beautiful—and Harry attempted to respect the fact that the Dark Lord hadn't done this before and that he didn't have the bliss to relax his throat. He couldn't respect it for long. The way his eyes rolled closed and flicked open, tears on his cheeks, made Harry thrust his hips in a way that was probably disrespectful. Curse noosed around his gorgeous throat, bled through his hair—tensed and relaxed in Harry's grip. Still in his mind, supernova bursts of obsessive ravenous rage uncontrollably spilled out.
Every nerve absolutely blitzed, Harry decided that if he liked giving, he fucking loved receiving. The Dark Lord's mouth was too hot—vibrating moans that he interrupted with each thrust—light in his cheeks, illuminating the tears, eyes closed but glowing through the lids. He groaned each time Harry's cock twitched, lethal.
Tom's adoration and obsession mixed with the agony of the curse and the pure, heady rapture the Dark Lord's touch induced. Twisted around what he'd done and bloomed through him—manic euphoria laced with rage.
Harry came screaming and laughing—so hard he was blinded—not even done; he was aggressively flipped and shoved against the tree. His body rag-dolled, pants around his ankles, face pushed into the rough bark—barely hanging on, held up by Voldemort—his cock already slick and pressed against him.
"You—are—mine," groaned into Harry's neck, thrusting into him.
"Then—you're—mine," giggled and gasped out, violently aroused all over again.
Both arms around the trunk—practically useless. He let the curse blossom from every inch of his skin and lamented that he couldn't somehow climb inside the Dark Lord—he wanted him closer than he was, in his mind and thrusting inside him wasn't enough.
"…Mine," he repeated, the way it felt in his mouth was right. Correct. Open-mouthed grin, eyes glazed over. He felt him cum, moaning loud on Harry's shoulder. His favourite sound.
(AN: Listen when Crux suggested that I did not think it would actually HAPPEN. Um. Anyway, recap: Harry killed the Dursley's and maybe Petunia ate her son. Morty would suck his cock before he kissed him; whatever helps you not sleep at night, buddy.)