Work Text:
Everything exploded into chaos.
Harry watched with abject horror how a body, deformed and haunting rose from the cauldron. It shone a pale white, its skin glowing beneath the moonlight streaming into the graveyard.
I’m going to die.
Voldemort was out. He was free. In the flesh.
Harry was going to die.
“Master?”
Voldemort did not speak nor move. He was still. A sense of unease speared through Harry’s insides. Something was wrong. More than wrong.
Harry couldn’t make out his face, couldn’t see anything from where he’d been bound to the Grim Reaper statue. He was an unwilling audience to it all, as he’d always been. But he knew— could feel it in his bones.
A vicious snarl thundered in the air, one that made the hairs in Harry’s arms stand on end, and then—
Screams.
Harry thought he knew terror, had known it from the moment he’d faced off Voldemort in his first year at Hogwarts. Now he knew better.
Something wrenched in his stomach, petrified and noxious at the same time he saw Voldemort move and turn.
Voldemort was—
Harry gagged, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment to brace himself, to find the strength he didn’t possess. Voldemort was monstrous, deformed. There was no word in the English language that could describe just what Voldemort was.
His eyes were a bright red, his mouth a jagged and wide maw with what looked like hundreds of gleaming sharp teeth. Where Voldemort’s nose should have been, there was nothing but jagged and raw skin. Like he had an open, bleeding wound in his face, torn off by some snarling beast.
Harry couldn’t look away, his terrified scream lodging in his throat when Voldemort’s eyes settled on Wormtail’s pale and frozen form and leaped from out of the cauldron and on top of Wormtail’s body.
Oh god.
Another scream shattered the unsettling silence of the graveyard. Voldemort had sunk his mouth into Wormtail’s neck, a spray of blood shooting out from the man’s neck and outward. It was only the fact that Harry was pinned a good two meters away that saved him from becoming bathed in his blood.
‘N-no—”
Harry cringed when a wet squelch sounded off in the air before Voldemort lifted his head, a mound of flesh caught in his teeth before he swallowed it down. Wormtail’s ‘ please’ and ‘M-my lord’ were faint, weak, but Harry could still hear it. Even through the rush of blood in his ears, of his heart’s violent beat, beat, beat in his chest, he knew precisely when Voldemort descended on Wormtail again.
Harry didn’t know how long, Wormtail begged, the sound of tearing flesh and gasping breaths loud in the air, until his pleas finally stopped. It could have been seconds or hours.
The terror flooding through Harry’s veins, stalling his own reactions to the spectacle in front of him.
No.
Harry wanted to shut his eyes, to blind himself to the moment. All he could make out was the sound of crunching bone and tearing flesh. It echoed. But he couldn’t press his hands to his ears. He was frozen. Mute. And Voldemort didn’t stop. It was as if was starving, hungry. He was nothing more than a mindless piranha.
I’m going to die.
Harry’s gorge climbed up his throat, threatening to spill out, but he fought it back. Restrained it if only to stop from catching the monster’s attention. He couldn’t afford to do that now. He didn’t want to die. Not like this.
Voldemort was eating Wormtail. He was—
Oh god, oh god, oh god.
He tried to stall his breaths, to remain as still as possible in the hopes that Voldemort wouldn’t notice him. Not when he had a fresh—Harry didn’t want to think about it, he didn’t —kill in front of him.
Voldemort stopped.
Harry froze, his fingers balled into tight fists to stall the terror that wanted to rip through him.
Just breathe, Harry , he chanted over and over in his head. Just breathe . He didn’t dare blink.
A strange sound tore through the misty air. It had come from Voldemort.
No, no. No.
Harry’s lungs refused to cooperate. Harry was shaking, trembling, unable to do anything when Voldemort’s head cocked to one side, his eyes blinking open and finally settling on him. Voldemort was drenched in blood and clumps of meat, and naked.
Harry bit his lip hard enough to bleed.
Please don’t notice me. Please don’t notice me—
Then, Voldemort’s nonexistent lips pulled back, revealing rows upon rows of red-tinged teeth, and he turned in his direction on his hands and knees. His body’s movements were all wrong, contorted and twisted. The joints were bent at an angle a human body should never be able to twist, his shoulder blades and fingers gnarled.
Harry gagged this time, unable to stop it when Voldemort began to move, crept closer and closer . The stench of iron and raw meat assaulted his senses, strengthening with each inch the monster came. Harry’s eyes burned with it, his throat seizing.
Harry was going to be sick.
“N-no,” Harry choked out, pushing as closely as he could go into the unyielding stone behind him, clawing and struggling against the ropes holding him bound. They refused to move, however. The bindings dug into his arms, cut into his shoulders.
He was helpless.
I’m going to die.
Voldemort prowled nearer, rivulets of blood running down his wide mouth. His eyes were trained on his, bright and curious and—
So much blood.
“S-stop, stay back!” Harry shouted now, terror and recklessness fueling him. He wasn’t going to die, not like this. He had to do something, to stop the monster somehow from hurting him.
Eating you, a terrifying thought murmured in the back of his head.
Harry struggled harder, twisting and fighting against the ropes. But it was useless, in the time Harry had ripped his eyes away from the creature to fight off the ropes, Voldemort had closed the distance between them and began to stand—
No.
Voldemort towered above him, his head tilting to one side as he looked at him, inspected him. Then, he was leaning in, his face pressing closer until Harry’s breath hitched, so numb with terror that he stopped struggling, only watched.
Voldemort’s hot breath fanned along his cheeks, and Harry cringed, unable to stop from pushing into the stone at his back until his spine ached. The stench of rotting flesh and blood was thick in the man’s breath.
It was all Harry could smell, could taste in the back of his throat.
“P-please,” Harry said as Voldemort’s clawed hands splayed on either side of his head, his sharp nails grating against the stone. “Don’t kill me, please, oh god—”
Voldemort’s face buried itself against the side of his throat, something sticky and wet and— blood, it was blood— clinging to the sides of his neck.
Harry was just about to beg again when a strange sound erupted from Voldemort’s neck. It was low, almost like a—
Confusion bloomed in Harry’s stomach, mixing with the terror clinging to his bones.
Was Voldemort purring?
Harry blinked, a perverse sense of humor flooding through him when Voldemort pressed closer, enveloping Harry with his own body. He scarcely noticed when the ropes holding pinning him against the statue snapped away. Melted into nonexistence.
“M-mine.”
The hairs on Harry’s arms stood on end at the growled word muttered into his neck, jagged and raw and broken. Harry swallowed for want of a response, unable to move lest he incites the beast into harming him, into—
Harry’s eyes unwilling fell to Wormtail’s mutilated corpse, his stomach rebelling for what felt like the hundredth time. It was a miracle he hadn’t thrown up, that he hadn’t made the situation all the worse for himself.
“Mine. ”
Voldemort’s claws made their way to Harry’s waist, dragging across the stone to dig into the fabric of his shirt, into the threadbare material of his trousers and yank him closer. Harry whimpered, hands balling into fists when something moist and hot pressed against his neck, lapped and sucked into his skin—
The realization that this was Voldemort’s tongue and mouth was enough to make his knees quake.
“Stop,” Harry said, hating both how weak the words sounded, but finding that there was nothing he could do about it. There was no telling what the monster would do if he became too aggressive, if he—
Voldemort stopped. His claws did not move away from where they had wrapped around his waist, but he was no longer nuzzling and sucking at his neck. He was simply purring. Content.
“V-Voldemort?” Harry started, hesitant to even speak. The monster made no indication that he had heard his name, that he even recognized it. His face was pressed into the crook of Harry’s neck and refused to move. “C-can you understand me?”
Voldemort pushed closer, his grip tightening until his claws tore into his clothing. Harry barely managed to bite back the nervous laugh that wanted to leave him.
“Are you—” Harry’s words melted into a gasp when something hard and hot pushed against the side of his hip and the monster let out a groan that sounded nothing like his infuriated snarls. “—oh god, get off me!”
There was a moment where nothing happened.
Voldemort fell still, once more, his body flush against Harry’s, smearing blood and gore all over Harry’s clothes and skin. Harry counted his breaths and back, debating whether he should fight, should act, or wait it out, bide his time until he could get at a wand and escape.
The moment ended as quickly as it had come.
Harry yelped when Voldemort dragged him from the stone pillar and dropped him to the ground, body atop his. With a shout, Harry began to struggle in earnest, unable to hold still any longer when Voldemort’s monstrous face was now inches from his and his claws had settled on either side of Harry’s head.
Blood and saliva dripped from Voldemort’s mouth onto his face, humid and wet and—
Harry's stomach protested, what he’d eaten before he’d set off on this challenge swirling in his stomach when Voldemort’s eyes blinked shut, as if savoring the moment and descended on him. Tilting his head away, Harry managed to avoid the press of his mouth against his, but the alternative was no better. It never could be.
Voldemort’s mouth was lapping at his neck, crooning and purring into it with a hot tongue and soft lips. His skin itched, the sticky and moist sensation of Voldemort’s tongue laving at his skin making him want to crawl right out from beneath him.
But Voldemort’s body was massive, weighed him down against the ground, his legs had arranged themselves so as to prevent Harry from kicking him off, from hitting him where Harry knew it would hurt, given that it was-it was pressing into his bloody thigh.
“S-stop, stop, what are you doing? ” Harry yelled, hands scratching and clawing at Voldemort’s shoulders, punching and jerking beneath him to get away, to shove him off. It was like moving stone. Voldemort made no sign that he even noticed Harry was fighting him at all.
One of his clawed fingers curled into the collar of his shirt, its sharp point digging into the center of his chest, and Harry had one moment to brace himself before Voldemort was tearing his shirt straight down the middle and exposing him to the night air.
“Mine. ”
Voldemort’s voice rumbled through the clearing, guttural and monstrous and-and—
Harry cried out when Voldemort’s mouth slid down his neck, his touches oddly gentle and reverent as they made their way down his throat, sucking and peppering him with kisses that were loud and harrowing in the empty graveyard.
Harry didn’t stop fighting, not once. His arms were burning with his exertions, hooking his fingers into its face to gouge out Voldemort’s bloody eyes, but Voldemort didn’t care, merely swatted his hands away with a clawed hand and pinned them above his head to stop his struggling.
“No, no no.”
Voldemort’s face nestled into his chest and stopped, his inhumane eyes blinking open to level Harry with a look of wonder and fascination, something that looked almost human for a moment, before he pressed the side of his head to his chest.
Was he listening to my heart? Harry wondered, fear making his heart race all the more quickly in his chest. Could he tell just how scared I am?
“N-no need to be a-afraid,” Voldemort’s broken voice shattered the silence, almost as if replying directly to Harry’s train of thought. A laugh equal parts terrified and confused fled Harry’s throat.
“Mine. Mine. ”
Voldemort’s mouth found his nipple, the flat of Voldemort’s slit and serpentine tongue flicking over the nub. Harry’s body jerked, his struggles renewing with more vigor.
What?
Something dizzy and strange flickered over Harry’s senses.
“Me. Mine. Me.”
Harry didn’t understand. He didn’t know what was happening, why Voldemort was touching him, and—Voldemort’s teeth closed around his nipple, gentle and sweet, eliciting a strange sound Harry could not contain. His cheeks burned, a jolt of something hot dipping down his navel.
“No, I’m not— I’m not —” Harry’s shouts melted into a weak, keening sound when the hand not pinning Harry’s wrists above his head slid from the center of his chest and down to his trousers. The fingers crooked over the hem, and Harry’s heart nearly stopped with realization.
It was a slap to the face.
“Stop it, I’m your enemy, Harry Potter. Snap out of it.”
Harry’s words fell on deaf ears because rather than halt, than a flicker of awareness flash in Voldemort’s crimson eyes, Voldemort’s fingers dipped into the hem of Harry’s trousers and began to shred them from his legs.
Twisting, Harry tried to buck the hand away, to stop himself from being bared to the cool air in the graveyard.
None of his efforts amounted to anything. In a matter of moments, Voldemort had managed to shred both his pants and trousers from his legs, leaving nothing more than pieces of frayed cloth beneath his arse.
Harry was just as naked as the monster was.
“H-Harry.”
A terrified breath left him when Voldemort whispered his name into his chest, his tongue and mouth kissing along the skin and lapping at him. They glided over his nipples, the abrasive texture of his tongue like that of a cat's in the way it managed to twirl and flick and tease at the sensitive peaks.
Harry’s spine arched, but nothing that he did, no movements Harry attempted, could get the man off. He was helpless, he was—
A cry left him when a clawed hand wrapped around his half-hardened prick and stroked.
No. No. No.
“Mine. Harry.”
Voldemort twisted and pulled at his shaft with his hand, teasing and watching with his red eyes how he forced cry after damning cry from Harry’s mouth. Harry thought he was catching fire, that he had, in fact, caught fire, at the sensation of Voldemort’s mouth and his hand stroking him into oblivion.
It was too much. He’d never—
Harry closed his eyes, unable to look any longer.
Closing his eyes only made the horror of what was happening worse. It only made Voldemort’s terse words and sucking sounds louder, filthier.
A pressure began to build beneath his skin, in his gut. Harry fought against it, recognizing it for what it was, for what Voldemort was trying to do. He refused. Harry would never.
Voldemort had killed a man. I can’t. I can’t.
When Voldemort’s mouth fell away from his oversensitive nipples with a final pop to descend lower, to kiss and lap into his belly button, Harry’s eyes fell open against his will. The monster was moving. Voldemort was moving, and he, Harry could only cry out, could only dig his nails into his palms in the hopes that Voldemort would slip up—
Something hot and terrible flooded him when Voldemort’s teeth dug into the curve of Harry’s hip bone, the jolt making his knees quake, his body bend.
No.
Voldemort did it again, his eyes flashing with curiosity and pleasure. Harry snarled at him before the sounds melted into a hitched breath and a sweet moan he wanted to erase from his mind. Voldemort’s mouth had fallen lower, so close to where his hand was toying with Harry’s prick, teasing at his slit and squeezing him like a vice that—
“Please,” Harry begged, hoping that Voldemort could understand, could find reason and rationality somewhere in his mind. “Stop, you’re not—you’re not yourself. You don’t want to do—”
Harry choked, his head slamming hard into the ground when Voldemort’s mouth engulfed him with a look of wonder and pleasure in his red eyes. There was still blood over his face, but the heat of his mouth, of that too long tongue curling around his cock, made him weak.
No.
Voldemort’s throat rumbled with pleasure, and Harry’s toes curled, could feel that vibration in his bollocks and spine. It rocked Harry, made him keen and writhe like he’d been cruciated.
Harry’s skin was on fire.
Voldemort swallowed him up without looking away, and Harry, too, looked at him, unable to stop himself from watching his own debasement.
Stop.
Harry didn’t want to look, didn’t want to see.
Looking.
He looked and looked and looked, noted the way Voldemort’s mouth with rows and rows of teeth took him into his maw, felt when a tongue pushed against his slit to rip another cry from his mouth. He watched it all, his glasses askew but still very much on his face as Voldemort devoured him without a hint of teeth, without a bite—
Voldemort’s mouth curved, a tooth grazing the underside of his cock, and Harry wept, broke apart. His mouth fell open with a silent scream, his toes curling and his mind going blank. His climax hit him like a punch in the stomach.
Voldemort’s mouth didn’t stop. It drank him up, ate up his screams with a pleased hum and a thrilled note in the crimson depths of his eyes. Harry bore witness to it. A captive audience.
It was only when the mouth became too much, when the overstimulation became pain, when Voldemort’s mouth refused to end, to let him go, that Harry cried and began to thrash.
“Stop!” And Voldemort did, he paused, his mouth wet with his cum and blood and gore. Harry didn’t have the energy to be disgusted, to be sick, not when a wave of relief swept through him at his cock being let alone, at his body falling bonelessly on the ground, the fight beaten out of him.
“Please, no more.”
Tilting his head, Voldemort looked at him as if he was trying to understand. Then—
His mouth curved into a horrific smile, flashing flecks of raw meat caught between the grooves of his teeth that made Harry’s heart stutter with distress and horror—oh god.
“Mate, Harry Potter.”
Voldemort descended on him again.
The press of that mouth against Harry’s stomach and the rumble of Voldemort’s throat, purring with contentment, the last thing Harry heard before he let the bone-deep weariness take him. With the hope that if he closed his eyes, that he gave himself into oblivion, he’d wake up and the nightmare would be over.