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His heart’s pounding. Hermione and Ron are running for their lives next to him, and he’s not quite sure if they can make it out of this alive.

There’s no way out of this.

The snatchers haven’t recognized him yet. But he knows it won’t be long before they do. Or someone else does.

Hermione spins and faces him, out of breath as she stares at him with wide eyes. She raises her wand, apparent on doing something judging by the determination in her eyes, but she’s tackled before she can. Her wand goes flying and the spell goes awry, hitting the tree. A Stinging Hex.

The Snatchers are on him a second later, and he’s held roughly to the floor, his arms behind his back.

They must know who they are. The Snatchers talk loud enough for them to hear – they’re not going to the Ministry.

Harry’s heart sinks even further when they land.

The Malfoy Mansion.

He spent six years with Malfoy. There’s no way he won’t be recognized.

“We have to call him,” says Lucius Malfoy when they’re dragged in. There’s hysterical glee on his face and Harry closes his eyes in defeat, not willing to see the recognition in Draco Malfoy’s eyes.

Bellatrix is there. She cackles as she turns Harry’s head this way and that, her face uncomfortably close as she scrutinizes his face.

“He looks delicious,” purrs Bellatrix, and Harry flinches as she gets even closer, her breath ghosting over his.

“He belongs to the Dark Lord,” cuts in Lucius, and Harry never thought he would be grateful to hear the prat’s voice.

Until Bellatrix gives a little shrug and turns her attention to Hermione.

He swears his heart stops.

“No,” he tries to get out, but there’s a red light heading toward him.

He falls straight back into Malfoy’s waiting arms.

When he’s revived, Harry struggles wildly. The adrenaline from seeing Bellatrix turn to Hermione is still coursing through his veins, and the Stupify had done nothing to alleviate it.

But there’s ropes securing his hands to the ceiling and he’s unable to escape it. His wand’s gone and he hasn’t accessed his accidental magic in forever. This – they’ve lost. They have no allies.

No allies that can storm Voldemort’s base and rescue them.

And Voldemort must be –

“Ah,” says a voice, and Harry stills, recognizing it immediately. He’s heard it enough in his nightmares – in his visions.

“Harry Potter,” the voice continues, and Voldemort steps into the light from the lone flickering candle. He’s just as he remembers, and terror fills his heart at the sight.

And resignation. This is it.

They’ve lost.

“Did you think you could escape me?” asks Voldemort. He bares his mouth into an imitation of a grin, and Harry flinches as Voldemort walks even closer.

He’s not as disgusting as Bellatrix – no one can match her rotten teeth and even more disgusting breath – but Harry’s been afraid of Voldemort ever since he was eleven. Being this up close is making him shake in terror and Harry’s usually full of dumb Gryffindor courage. He can’t find any of it in him now.

Voldemort lifts his hand, a strange expression on his face as he takes the last step forward, putting him just a hair’s breadth away from Harry.

Harry can’t take a breath, his eyes wide as he stares into Voldemort’s eyes. He still remembers the Ministry and the ghastly day of the Third Task of the Triwizard Tournament. Those were the days he had seen Voldemort, and yet he had never been this close. This close he can see the way the rituals had changed him from a handsome student to this.

But even this, isn’t – it isn’t as scary as he had imagined. He’s still a man, and Harry can still see the remnants of Riddle’s facial structure in him.

That startling realization is enough to bring even more terror upon him. To realize that Voldemort was a man, even now as he is remaining in a body created by a ritual, reminds him that Voldemort isn’t a scary shapeless entity from nightmares. He’s real. And he’s close enough for Harry to see every detail of his face.

And it’s startling.

He flinches back.

He wonders if Voldemort is experiencing the same realization because Voldemort’s eyes are inscrutable as he finally touches Harry.

The firm touchpad of Voldemort’s pointer finger on his cheek brings shivers down his body as he braces for pain, but nothing happens. He thought Voldemort was going to curse him.

Instead, Voldemort places the rest of his hand on Harry’s face, cupping his cheek.

His mouth parts open in shock and Harry doesn’t dare breathe as Voldemort turns his face.

“Enchanting,” hisses Voldemort, and Harry’s breath stutters as he registers that Voldemort is talking to him in Parseltongue.

“How,” he stammers in English, and Voldemort’s lips quirk up into an amused smile.

“You talked to Nagini,” says Voldemort, “don’t you remember?”

He’s never heard Parseltongue spoken like this before. It’s weirdly sensual, the way the sss’s slip off Voldemort’s tongue, but he can’t focus on that.

Not when it’s clear that Voldemort now knows he can understand him.

He can’t even muster up a response, but Voldemort doesn’t seem to be waiting for one.

“Curious,” hisses Voldemort, and he gets even closer, the words a whisper in his ear. “Don’t you wonder how you can speak my language, Harry Potter?”

“It’s not your language,” he bites back, the ache of him going under scrutiny in his second year still present, and Voldemort pauses.

“I am the last remaining descendant of the Slytherin line,” explains Voldemort, patiently. “Which means unless you are my bastard son, you belong to me in a different way.”

There’s a pregnant silence as Harry registers what Voldemort’s saying.

He feels like he’s choking. He doesn’t – he rather be tortured than to face this Voldemort. A Voldemort who seems more interested in playing with him than killing him – he’s suddenly more scared than he was before. “I don’t – I don’t belong to you. People don’t belong to you, you sick – “

Voldemort cuts him off with a short laugh, “But you do.”

“Can’t you feel it?” Voldemort drops his voice into a low whisper, his voice still sensual from the lure of the Parseltongue and Harry feels it crawl all over him – feels the tension in the air as Voldemort trails his hand down from where it’s still cupping Harry’s cheek to the side of his neck. His hand leaves goosebumps everywhere it touches.

“Your magic’s calling out for me,” says Voldemort, “And I’m right here.” He punctuates the last two of his words with his magic, and Harry chokes as he feels it in the air, feels the heaviness of it hanging over him and then feels the pleasure that it calls from him as it cloaks him.

Voldemort’s still holding him, but Harry feels a thousand miles away, his eyes open but unseeing as he feels the magic settle over every inch of his body.

There are whispers in his head, of a voice that he’s heard for so long but had never understood.

Now, with Voldemort’s magic flush against his heated skin, he suddenly understands it with startling clarity.

He’s heard it before, after all.

The Locket’s voice is still here – within him. But instead of the negativity the Locket had brought, this one is bringing pleasure with each word it speaks, as it extols praise upon praise on him for bringing it back to Voldemort.

You’re where you belong, it says, and Harry shivers as it presses its will even further on him, as Voldemort’s touch suddenly feels electric as he trails his hand even further down his body.

Voldemort’s molesting him, and all Harry can blindly hope is for him to never stop.

“My horcrux,” whispers Voldemort, and Harry whimpers as Voldemort presses up flush against him. The feel of Voldemort against him combined with his magic is enough to send his nerves into overdrive, and Harry can’t think – not when every part of him is screaming that he’s come home.

He wonders why he can’t feel the terror anymore, wonders if Voldemort had brainwashed him into thinking otherwise, but the thought flies away as soon as it arrives; the part of him that belongs to Voldemort has been residing in him since forever – since that ghastly night of Hallow’s Eve, and – it’s stronger than he is.

He can’t resist it, and he lets Voldemort bestow even more pleasure on him, Voldemort’s hands feeling heated against his skin as the part within him shivers in pure ecstasy.

When Voldemort kisses him, it all comes to a head, and he gasps into it.

Voldemort doesn’t take pity on him though and presses harder, devouring Harry. His tongue is insistent, mapping each corner and Harry can’t fight it, he just tries his best to survive, his eyes clenched tight as Voldemort continues to make pleasure dance in every part of his body.

The part within him that belongs to Voldemort shivers and sighs in contentment, and Harry follows its example, and when Voldemort finally pulls away, Harry can’t help reaching out in loss.

“No,” he murmurs, and there’s delight in Voldemort’s eyes.

“Did you enjoy that?” asks Voldemort, and there’s no derision in it, simply curiosity, and Harry nods, helpless.

Something in him – not the Horcrux – not Voldemort whispers that something’s wrong with this – that he shouldn’t be making out with the man who plagued his nightmares since he was eleven, but it’s swallowed up before it can get more than a sentence out.

Voldemort thumbs his bottom lip, and Harry can’t help the way he gives a full-bodied shiver at the touch, unable to do anything but wait for Voldemort to do something.

And Voldemort does. He pulls Harry back into another kiss, but this time it’s chaste, almost reverent.

“You’ve kept it safe," he hisses in Parseltongue, “and I always give rewards.”

There’s no question about what reward Voldemort’s talking about. Not with the hunger in Voldemort’s eyes and the way every touch Voldemort bestows on him brings heat onto him.

The magic’s making it hard for him to think – he can’t get a single coherent thought out but even despite the lure of the Parseltongue, the harsh sss’s and the hissing reminds him who is standing in front of him.

“No,” he stammers out, “I don’t – you can have it back, I don’t want a reward.” He tries to put as much anger as he can into his words, but he can’t, not when his head’s swimming and Voldemort’s still touching him.

It’s weird, years ago, Voldemort wouldn’t have been able to touch him at all without burning up. Now, Voldemort’s touch is almost worshipping, soft as he dances his fingertips across Harry’s neck.

He should be scared, but Harry leans into it, even as he berates himself for doing so. It’s hard to think badly on the one who is bringing him so much pleasure.

Voldemort doesn’t answer him, and instead splays his fingers out onto Harry’s skin. The sight of those long, pale fingers on him does nothing to abate his arousal, and instead brings another spike, and he lets out a heady moan, unable to take the sensations of Voldemort’s magic.

He knows Voldemort is playing with him.  Knows that this is just another aspect of Voldemort’s plan to torture him and bring him to his knees.

But he also knows that they’ve lost. That with the knowledge that he, himself, is a Horcrux, there is no way they can win. And Voldemort will never let him go now. Not when Harry holds a part of Voldemort’s soul within him.

And isn’t that a bloody mess? It’s hard to be coherent, hard to think of anything, really, but the thought that maybe he had been Voldemort’s all along is still pressing. He’s had that thought all of his fifth year now, and he’s never learned how to Obscure his thoughts.

He wonders if Voldemort can understand him now. Can feel his emotions spilling out into the air around him, can feel his hesitation and his horror and his willingness all at once.

In front of him, Voldemort’s expression changes. Slowly, the corners of Voldemort’s mouth go up into a smile, and Harry shivers at the sight of it.

“Yes,” hisses Voldemort, confirming Harry’s thoughts, and he leans forward, his lips close to the Harry’s ear. He suddenly shoves even closer, Harry’s back hitting the cold wall. Harry cries out at the shock and then the sudden warmth as Voldemort presses flush against him, covering every part of Harry’s body with his own.

Harry struggles against the bonds, wanting his hands free to do something – to shove back against Voldemort…

To run his hands over him…

His breath hitches, betrayed by his own thoughts and Voldemort lets out a hoarse chuckle.

“My little Horcrux,” Voldemort whispers, his voice silky and far too close for Harry to do anything but shiver at the sound of it. “Are you sure you don’t want a reward? You’ve done so well.”

The Horcrux within him purrs at the words, and Harry shivers again as Voldemort raises a hand to trail across his cheek. Harry can’t tear his eyes away from the way Voldemort is staring at him. There’s hunger, but there’s fondness too, and Harry had never imagined in all his wildest dreams that Voldemort would ever look at him like this.

But he knows why. And by the way Voldemort is staring at him, the other wizard knows it just as well.

Voldemort was always a narcissistic...

“Please,” he whispers. And his heart’s screaming in protest as he utters the next words, “Please let me go.”

Voldemort stares at him for a little longer, and then inconceivably leans back, the magic leaving the room in a rush.

Harry gasps at the shock of it leaving, and his hands curl even though they’re bound. It hurts. He feels as if his very soul is crying.

“Beg,” hisses Voldemort. “Beg for my hands on you.”

Voldemort’s magic may be gone, but Voldemort hasn’t moved. He’s still touching Harry, and he shifts, so his thigh is now resting in-between Harry’s legs.

Harry feels himself hardening up at the movement even without the magic. His soul is reaching out, as if it can convince Voldemort to come back. His emotions are a wreck, and he knows Voldemort can feel it. Because Voldemort’s still smirking at him…still staring as him as if he knows Harry can’t hold out...

Because he can’t…

Harry can’t think of a single thing he’s ever wanted more than this.

He wants this more than he had ever wanted anything. Wants Voldemort to put his hands on him again, to trail those long fingers on him and elicit pleasure from every nerve on his body.

Has he been waiting all this time? For Voldemort to come and touch him like this…

A single tear makes his way down his cheek as Harry hangs his head, defeated.

“Please,” he whispers in Parseltongue, and it goes against everything he stands for, “please put your hands on me.”

There’s a long beat.

Those fingers curl under his chin, jerking his head up so Harry can stare into those serpentine eyes.

They burn.

“Gladly,” hisses Voldemort, and this time, he doesn’t hold back.

His kiss is heated, furious, and Harry whimpers into it, his body heating up at every connection he has with Voldemort. Voldemort’s thigh moves against him, and Harry shivers, his whole body seizing up as Voldemort takes everything from him.

There’s no hesitation, now. Now that Harry’s given consent…given up fighting, Voldemort doesn’t seem keen to hold back. Magic descends into the open air again, making it hard for Harry to think about anything but the pleasure that’s dancing through his body.

A hand makes its way down, and Harry jerks in Voldemort’s arms as it grips him tight. Voldemort’s fingers are skilled, and he tugs on it, and Harry’s mouth gasps open into Voldemort’s assault, his hands struggling uselessly from the tight ropes that’s still holding him captive.

“So pretty,” whispers Voldemort when he pulls away, and Harry flushes from the words, wondering just how he looks.

His mouth burns and it feels bruised, and he wants more than anything to hide his face away from Voldemort’s hungry gaze. He shouldn’t – he shouldn’t enjoy this like it is, shouldn’t feel the thrill on his body from being the subject of Voldemort’s attention, but he does. He does enjoy this.

He wants this.

“No one is around,” says Voldemort, “you can admit it…admit that you want me.”

He doesn’t deign Voldemort’s smug words with a response, instead closing his eyes and doing his best not to think about what his actions mean.

Because he’s submitting in every sense of the word; he’s not even fighting back anymore.

But what good will fighting do anyway?

He’s already lost…

Why not enjoy the pleasure Voldemort can give him?

He knows it’s not him thinking this – he never would have even imagined something like this if it wasn’t for the part within him.

Voldemort had awoken it and there’s no way it’s going to let Harry out of its grasp now.

It’s warping his mind, and Harry can’t do anything to stop it.

(But does he want to? He’s never felt pleasure like this before in his life…)

Harry’s clothes fall off him, cut into pieces by Voldemort’s magic. The wizard hadn’t even spoken an incantation out loud, and yet Harry’s skin is now exposed to the cold air.

This time, when Voldemort has his hands on him, it’s on his bare skin, and Harry can’t – he thrashes under the pleasure it gives him, under the headiness that fills his bones at the sensation.

Voldemort doesn’t wait this time, he runs his hands freely upon Harry’s chest, exploring every inch of him. When Voldemort bends to get his mouth on him – to suck hard on his neck, bruising him for all to see, Harry throws his head back, his mouth open in a wordless expression of pure gratification.

Voldemort doesn’t stop at one, instead of pulling away at all, he marks other parts of his skin, until Harry’s neck is a mess of Voldemort’s marks.

Dimly, Harry remembers what Voldemort had said – had basically ordered him to believe.

He belongs to Voldemort.

Voldemort chuckles into his neck and then pulls away, the affection clear to see in his eyes as he cups Harry’s cheek.

“Yes,” hisses Voldemort, “You belong to me. Your soul cries out for me.”

He bends to punctuate his words with another quick bite, and Harry cries out as the pain blossoms in his right shoulder, angry bite marks left to show where Voldemort had claimed him.

“Say it,” he orders, and Harry closes his eyes, his body limp with defeat.

“I’m yours,” he whispers, and Voldemort dives in again.

When Voldemort gets his grip on him again, Harry cries out, the touch on his bordering on painful arousal is too much for him and he thrashes in Voldemort’s arms.

Voldemort doesn’t seem too inclined to wait, and instead presses even closer, the hint of a smirk on his face as he drives Harry insane.

When Harry finishes, he nearly blacks out. It’s too much for him, Voldemort’s hand and the way his magic is still pressing down on him, and he’s sure Voldemort knows exactly what’s going through his mind. Because despite being oversensitive, Voldemort continues to move his hand, intent on drawing out every last drop of him. Harry can’t even make a sound so overwhelmed as he is, his mouth open but no sound coming out as he shakes hard in Voldemort’s arms.

Voldemort doesn’t give him any time to rest, instead diving in and drawing him into another intense kiss. It’s too much, the way Voldemort doesn’t even let up, and Harry struggles weakly against the bonds. This time, Voldemort pulls away and reaches up, freeing Harry’s wrists from the restraints with a casual display of magic.

Harry brings down his arms immediately, sore from the amount of time he had to keep them outstretched.

He thinks it might be over, with the way Voldemort seems content to draw him into bruising kisses, but Voldemort’s hand wanders down eventually, and Harry stiffens as Voldemort cups his bottom.

He’s still devoid of clothing from Voldemort’s earlier spell, and he cries out when Voldemort runs a finger across his bottom. He’s never been touched there before, especially not there, and he’s unprepared for how sensitive it is. He goes limp, his energy gone out of shock, and he’s pliant in Voldemort’s arms as Voldemort continues to run his finger back and forth. Just like before, Voldemort uses magic to make it tingle even more, the magic so intimately familiar to him as it follows Voldemort’s finger like a shadow.

Voldemort seems intent on making this a reward, and it works. His magic reacts with the part within him, and it’s still purring from Voldemort’s attentions. It overrides the fear and hesitation and only leaves him with contentment so Harry doesn’t fight it. He’s already still wrung out from coming once that he doesn’t quite dare to protest.

Not as if he wants to…not when it feels this good.

He instead wraps his sore arms around Voldemort, leaving Voldemort to hold him upright as he doesn’t seem to be able to gather enough strength to do so on his own. He feels more than sees Voldemort smirk and then gasps as Voldemort whispers an incantation into his ear.

He doesn’t understand it, but he knows what it does. Wetness starts to drip from his arsehole and it feels weird enough that he grimaces from it. Instead of comforting him, Voldemort slips a finger in, and this time, Harry goes rimrod straight at the sensation.

Voldemort stills at his reaction, and Harry shutters out a shaky breath. He’s never done this before.

Voldemort hears his thought and he feels Voldemort shake slightly from amusement. “Don’t worry,” hisses Voldemort, and it sounds sarcastic enough that Harry frowns, “I’ll be gentle.”

His first time with anyone and it’s with Voldemort.

Some part of him wishes this was a dream. That he was messed up enough in the head to want this even before knowing Voldemort’s Horcrux was in him.

But it’s not. Harry knows it’s not a dream because Voldemort slips another finger in, the pain it elicits causing him to let out another open-mouthed whimper.

This isn’t a dream.

Voldemort’s right here, and he’s not about to stop.

Even if Harry protests.

“That’s right,” whispers Voldemort, “there’s no escape now…”

He gave up first, Harry knows. So when Voldemort removes his fingers, leaving him sore and open, he does nothing more but to fist his hands into Voldemort’s robes.

Voldemort’s still fully dressed; the spell had only affected Harry and the thought of this – of Voldemort taking him unaffected while Harry is falling apart on him is enough to make his cheeks flush.

Voldemort doesn’t give him any warning. One second Harry’s gaping wide and loose and open, and then he’s filled to the brim with Voldemort. He gasps when it slides in, and he rests his head on Voldemort’s shoulder.  Harry’s unable to control his body as he continues shaking and he ends up biting down hard on Voldemort’s shoulder.

It’s undescribable how it feels to be full. He’s never been full before; this is his first time and it’s such a strange feeling that all Harry can do is clench his eyes shut so he can better get a hold of himself.

Voldemort’s magic doesn’t rest at all, it continues to make the air of the room heavy and tense, and Harry whimpers loudly as Voldemort starts to move.

With each thrust, Parseltongue falls from Voldemort’s lips and Harry understands each and every word despite the sss’s coming out more prominent than normal because of what they’re doing.

“Taking me so well,” hisses Voldemort, “one would think you were made for this.”

He grimaces at the words, and Voldemort laughs, the sound harsh and echoing in the room.  His annoyance at Voldemort’s words seem to spur Voldemort on and Harry gasps as Voldemort moves so he can hoist Harry further up. He pushes Harry’s legs impossibly far up, using magic to freeze them in place to get even further deeper into Harry.

Harry shakes as much as he can, frozen as he is he can still feel every inch of Voldemort sinking into him.

Voldemort takes his time with him, and forces him to watch as he thrusts in and out. The sight of Voldemort going into him like that makes him flush hard, because that’s him Voldemort is fucking and he can see every second of it.

“And you’re enjoying it,” Voldemort reminds him, his smirk bordering on cruel, and Harry closes his eyes, ashamed.

Because he is...

Voldemort brings his magic down once more, circling around his cock and bringing another harsh gasp out of him.

Voldemort wasn’t lying when he said he would find this pleasurable, because it seems like the Dark Lord is intent on him coming once more…

He doesn’t increase his pace, instead moving his magic to grip him in all the right places. His softening cock is already hardening back up under the ministrations, the sensation of Voldemort moving in and out doing nothing to stop the process.

He’s still seventeen, and his youth more than ensures that he will be up and ready to come once more.

“Please,” he whimpers, his nerves fried, and Voldemort shakes his head.

“Come for me,” he hisses, and without waiting for a response from Harry, he increases the pace to near punishing, thrusting so hard that Harry is sure that if he wasn’t frozen, he would be hitting the cold wall behind him from the force of it.

Instead, he’s frozen still, and Voldemort’s cock is hitting his prostate head on, and combined with the magic on his cock, it’s more than enough to make him start to tear up, overwhelmed by the sensations. Voldemort seems to increase his pace even more so, spurred on by his tears, and Harry lets out one single sob – full of emotion, despair, and pleasure all at once and finishes hard on himself.

It splatters everywhere, the warmth of it trailing down his spent cock and landing on his own stomach.

Voldemort’s still, and when Harry finally gathers the strength to open his eyes to look, Voldemort’s gaze hungers.

He doesn’t even ask if Harry can take more; Voldemort slowly starts to move once more. This time, Voldemort seems more affected than he was before, small grunts and pants dropping from his lips as he starts to take Harry hard.

He unfreezes Harry after minutes of this, of ramming Harry so hard that Harry loses breath, and then pushes as close as possible, finishing with a loud groan.

Harry’s breath stutters as he feels the warmth trickle into him, and he nearly falls as Voldemort lets go. Voldemort catches him, and after a tense few minutes of the both of them breathing hard, actually pulls Harry into another bruising kiss.

When he pulls apart, Harry can’t tear his eyes away from Voldemort’s eyes.

They’re glowing with satisfaction, the desire in them spent within Harry, and Harry can’t look away.

Inside him, the Horcrux purrs…