Chapter 3. A Creeping Suspicion
Harry didn't sleep after that. Barely moved after that, really, except to scrub furiously at his lips until they burned, until he was sure no blood remained. And yet, the monster's phantom tongue seemed to linger.
Gods, why? Why? Why had he—he licked him?
It was the blood. It had to have been the blood. Anything else was inconceivable. It had to be the blood.
Harry repeated it to himself over and over as the night dragged, the words becoming a lifeline to which he grasped nearly as firmly as the sheets beneath him. It had to be the blood. It had to.
If it wasn't...
Eventually, long after Harry's eyes had begun to ache, the sky began to lighten, and the world began to wake. Outside, Harry could hear the far-off din of birds chirping, and finally, something within him seemed to come loose. He shifted slightly, stiff body protesting as the tension leached out of him. Last to relax were his fingers, but at last, they finally uncurled. The room glowed orange with the light of the rising sun.
He had... survived. He had met Voldemort, looked him in the eyes, talked to him, and still lived to wonder at it.
How many could say the same? Who else could—oh. Tom. Tom could say the same.
Harry wondered, once again, why.
Every day, every night, every single time he woke, Harry braced himself for it. Braced himself and waited for him to return, but Voldemort didn't show himself once in the weeks following his capture. It would be his second full moon since his capture tonight and the more time passed, the more it seemed a curse rather than the blessing it undoubtedly was.
"I'd consider yourself lucky," Tom said to him not for the first time, watching calmly as Harry paced before the edge of the wards, rubbing irritably at the chain around his neck. The bruises there had faded many days ago. "The full attention of Lord Voldemort would be a violent thing, Harry."
"Yes, yes, I know," Harry said impatiently, "but I swear, Tom, I can just feel him watching me at night. If I could just know it was him and not my imagination... It's driving me crazy."
"That's understandable," Tom replied quietly. "I understand."
That stopped his pacing. "I know." After that night, Tom finally told him the truth. The ring he wore... He was as trapped as Voldemort was. As Harry was. He turned to face Tom. "I'm sorry."
The man tutted quietly. "Harry..." he breathed. "It's alright. Quite enough time has passed since I was first trapped here for me to grow used to—"
"Still," he interrupted, "I wouldn't wish this on anyone."
"Not even your uncle?" Tom asked softly, head tilting slightly to the side. "Or your aunt?"
Harry paused. "No," he said finally. "Not even them."
Tom didn't look surprised. "You are far kinder than I, Harry Potter. If I was met with the likes of your relatives—"
"I know," he said fondly. "You've said it before."
It had been strangely liberating—if a little embarrassing afterward—telling Tom about Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia. He hadn't meant to, really. They'd just been talking about how they'd met, and Tom had asked him why he'd been running. Asked him why he would rather risk Lord Voldemort's wrath over and over again just to see him than stay safe at his home...
Tom stepped forward, closer to Harry than was truly proper. "I meant it," he murmured. Dark waves of hair partly obscured hooded grey eyes that looked down at him.
Harry swallowed and stepped back, cursing himself as his face began to warm. "I know," he breathed. "And I know they would deserve it. But still. I couldn't wish this upon them. They're my family."
Something—disgust maybe?—flashed across Tom's face but it was gone just as quickly, replaced with a disarmingly charming smile. "You are quite right, Harry. I couldn't wish this upon them either, for then, it would be their abhorrent company foisted upon me rather than yours."
Harry's lips twitched. "Seems to me that you're the lucky one here."
"Am I?" Tom said lightly.
"I have been told I'm a delight."
"Oh undoubtedly," he drawled, smirking, "You're an undeniable pleasure."
"A gift among men," Harry continued; he was grinning now.
"An absolute joy to behold."
"Voldemort himself couldn't get enough—"
"That's not funny." Any trace of humor was gone, replaced with cold severity.
The abrupt shift in tone sent a jolt of anxiety rushing down Harry's spine. "I—Sorry. I'm sorry."
Tom's stern expression softened slightly. "I would see to it that you watch your tongue, Harry, when it comes to speaking of Lord Voldemort. You know he knows all that happens inside these wards. But it is no matter. You are forgiven."
An invisible hand had a hold of his heart. "He can't have—"
"I don't know." Tom sounded irritated. "I don't know how or when he gathers his information but he always finds out. It is only a question of if he'll care enough to do anything of it."
Harry drew in a shaky breath and nodded, his mind scrambling. It had been so long since that first night. Would this be it? Surely Voldemort wouldn't return tonight, would he? He couldn't know. How would he know?
Vaguely, he registered Tom looking unsurprised but disappointed as Harry's mind became lost to worry. "How levity dies in the face of Lord Voldemort. Come. Let us stroll."
Harry struggled to get a hold of his breathing as they began to walk the worn, circular trail just inside the wards. He tried to focus on the path before him, on the crunch of fallen leaves, on the smell that marked early autumn and dying summer.
After a long while, Tom spoke. "In all seriousness, I am lucky it is you who is trapped here with me." Harry glanced over at the man. He was gazing off toward the manor through the trees, avoiding his eyes. "It was... lonely before." He seemed a little surprised to be admitting it.
Without thinking, Harry reached out to the man walking beside him and grabbed his hand. Just as suddenly, Tom faltered and they stopped in the middle of the path as he stared down at their linked fingers. Harry spoke softly. "I'm glad you're here, Tom."
Tom's hand was loose in his own. The taller man continued to gaze down at their hands as if he'd never seen anything like it. It was only when Harry went to release his hold, face hot with embarrassment, that Tom's grip suddenly tightened and he abruptly continued walking, pulling Harry along with him. He settled at his side after a few steps, incredibly aware of how cool Tom's long fingers were and of how neatly his smaller hand fit in his.
"And I am glad you are here," Tom said after a while.
Harry smiled.
They always ate early, he and Tom, before they went their separate ways. It made Harry feel safer to avoid the night and Tom encouraged it, citing years of experience with Lord Voldemort's nighttime prowling. "Though I must admit," Tom had commented to him during one dinner, "I haven't seen too much of him since you've arrived."
Though he didn't mention it at the time, Harry had a creeping suspicion that this was because Voldemort had found something else to do at night rather than prowl. Something that sent the hairs on the back of his neck prickling and his eyes darting around the room with paranoia as Harry changed before bed.
He would've dismissed it by now if it hadn't been for the changing screen incident.
Though Harry had felt eyes on him ever since Voldemort had left that first night, it took a fortnight for him to go searching the many abandoned rooms of the manor for a changing screen. It had taken him the better part of an hour to drag one of the largest he'd found up the stairs and into his bedroom, but he had thought it worth it for the security and relief it had provided him that night. Privacy had been sweet, for as long as he'd had it. He hadn't had it long.
The next morning the screen was gone. Disappeared along with every other changing screen in the manor.
Harry felt it now as he did always the weight of eyes on him as he pulled off his simple tunic and trousers and scrambled into his night things. As always, he kept his back to the corner near the window; a possible—if dangerous—escape, should he need it. But once again, he found nothing to force his hand, and body, out of the window. His room stayed as empty as ever. And yet...
There was a presence. A dark force which lingered in the air...
He tried to ignore it as he climbed into bed and closed his eyes to sleep.
Harry Potter wore moonlight well.
Curled in a protective ball, thin sheets tangled around his middle and between his legs, the young man slept with his face to the window of the room Lord Voldemort had so graciously provided. He looked divine under the light of the full moon, all milky skin and thin, coltish legs and messy hair... How Lord Voldemort wished to see that skin broken and bleeding, those legs spread, that hair in his fist. Lord Voldemort wanted to ravage him.
But no.
Lord Voldemort silently drew closer and Harry Potter shuddered. Slept on, but shuddered, and vindictive pleasure lit up Lord Voldemort's blood like dragon fire. To be feared so wholely, so viscerally... This was why the boy still lived.
This.
Tom Riddle had nothing to do with it.
Harry wasn't sure what woke him—a shift in the air, a whisper of movement, a breath, perhaps—but when he did, it was to an ominous figure looming above him. An ominous, serpentine figure.
Oh Gods no.
He was helpless to stop his body from stiffening.
"Ahh..." the creature breathed. "So tonight you wake."
Harry could barely breathe.
"I can tassste your fear, Harry Potter." Voldemort's head tilted eerily to the side; his eyes glowed red as they had before. "How sssweet—"
"I knew it." The words escaped him in a rush. The monster's eyes narrowed. "I knew you were watching me."
A horrid smile split open Voldemort's face, and to Harry's immense discomfort, his red eyes began raking down his body. "Lord Voldemort sssees all, Harry Potter." It took everything in him to stay still under the predator's gaze. "All."
Harry's mouth opened and closed, fear a vice around his throat. Finally, though, he choked out, "What do you want?" The monster began to laugh derisively and despite himself, Harry bristled. "What do you want from me?" he repeated forcefully. "Is trapping me here not enough?!"
"Enough?" The monster's voice was cold as ice. "Oh, Harry..." Voldemort crooned and then he was moving, slowly crawling on top of him as Harry's heart threatened to crawl out his mouth. "You ask me what I want... Are you sssure you want to know?"
Harry was frozen.
"I don't think you do." Voldemort's body settled firmly on top of his. "But Lord Voldemort will provide."
One spidery hand wrapped around his neck; the other crept up to grab a fistful of his hair.
"I want to trap you."
Harry began to choke.
"I want to tear you."
His head was ripped back painfully.
"But most of all, Harry Potter... I want to defile you."
That horrific hardness against his thigh—the hardness he'd been hopelessly, frantically ignoring—violently thrusted forward, ripping a strangled cry from Harry's lips.
"Yesss," Voldemort hissed and thrust forward again.
"No," Harry choked. The monster laughed a high cold laugh as he rocked forward viciously, red eyes meeting green, and Harry knew there was nothing he could do. Still, he tried. "Please."
The word shouldn't have done anything. Everyone knew Lord Voldemort was the worst of monsters, a nightmare unlike any other. Pleading would never work on something like him. And yet... The word seemed to break him. For a shocking, fleeting moment that must've been the moon, his red eyes flashed grey and his cold, high laugh faltered. His grip slipped.
It was all Harry needed.
Magic exploded out of his chest like it never had before, and Voldemort was hurled off of him. An instant later, Harry was on his feet and diving for the window.
He never made it.
Instead, there was a flash of red and then nothing at all.