LONG: Downfall (Harry / Voldemort)
Warnings: D/s, mild S/M, weirdness, mindfuck
Rating: hard R
Words: 4785
Summary: “In the quiet hush of the night the voice whispered into his mind; soft, but it sent him soaring, his heart pounding a slow pulse behind every feeling, everything sharper."
Disclaimer: They belong to JKR.
Notes: This one is for painless_j, who wanted "a Harry/Voldemort romance with both of them in character". Gratitude to spessartine for ideas, (though she is not to blame for what I did with them…) Eternal devotion to luckybrans, xellas, kennahijja, lady_kareth, lonely_lemon and underlucius for reading. (And to Ralph Fiennes for Voldemort’s voice. Guh.)
“Wake up, Harry.”
In the quiet hush of the night the voice whispered into his mind; soft, but it sent him soaring, his heart pounding a slow pulse behind every feeling, everything sharper.
“It’s really been too long -- how have you been, Harry? And what have you been up to, you and your little friends, little mice scurrying inside the walls - I know you are there. You have something that belongs to me." The voice was soft. "I want it back.”
He turned his head, but it chided him; “Harry, Harry; You cannot escape me. If this doesn’t stop, I’ll have to send a rat catcher after you, someone to seek you out -- little children -- little pests.” The words flowed gently down his spine. “You will die where no one can see or hear, your small bones falling away to dust in the darkness. Are you afraid of me?”
“No!”
But his cry echoed soundlessly. In the silence, he could feel amusement.
“Where are you, Harry?”
It was the softest whisper.
And for just an instant, there was a picture in his mind of number twelve, Grimmauld Place.
In panic, he jerked himself awake, and found himself sitting up in bed with the sheets tangled around him, pillows on the floor. Ron’s eyes were wide, white and shining in the darkness across the room, his open mouth a dark shadow.
Ron was staring at him, waiting for the news. And it was a relief to shift into action, telling him to wake Hermione and Ginny, telling him where to apparate, packing their trunks, shrinking them, his motions quick and efficient, thinking only of what they would need and how to save them, and apparating just as the dark cloaks swirled into the hallway, the voice in his mind chiding him gently, “Tisk, tisk Harry. You’re cutting it close this time.”
But just before he apparated, he put his fingers in his pocket.
Yes. It was still there; the thing he had found and never mentioned to anyone, wrapped in his handkerchief and heavy, weighing heavy in his hand.
~
It was a tiny wooden snake. Someone had dropped it through the mail slot.
Or it had crawled under the door.
“It’s a portkey, Harry. Pick it up -- don’t be shy.”
But Harry just stared at it, lying there on the mat. He waited for it to move.
“You don’t belong here, Harry.”
“Yes I do. And stop that.”
“Stop what, Harry?” The voice was amused, indulgent.
“Stop speaking parseltongue.”
“But you are speaking it, too, Harry… you’re thinking in it,” Voldemort said as if to a child. “It’s what we do, you and I.”
Harry looked up to find everyone gathered right there in front of the door, anticipation in their faces; Hermione with a book still in her hand.
“Oh, so these are your little friends: Ron, and Hermione, and -- oh, I remember -- Ginny, isn’t it?”
“Stay away from them,” he hissed, with his back against the door.
He heard himself say it in parseltongue.
And Ginny said, “Is it … you know who?”
And with sudden impatience he thought, Voldemort. Just say it. Voldemort. Because none of them saw what Voldemort really was. They were afraid of an abstraction, a bogeyman, a monster under the bed; but Voldemort was not a monster, Voldemort was a snake; and Harry understood snakes. Voldemort was a predator.
Their faces were uncomprehending and innocent of their own danger, wide-eyed.
Prey.
“Oh, yes Harry -- yes,” Voldemort’s voice crooned in pleasure. “Yes, that’s right.” And he felt Voldemort’s pleasure; it burned into his forehead, into his mind. It bored into his skull just above his eyes, a festering heat that he could not fight and could not escape. He couldn't think of anything else. He couldn't see. He had to blink back tears.
He looked once more at his friends, wanting to touch them, but ashamed of himself.
He took out his wand, bent down, picked up the portkey, and went wherever it would take him.
~
Harry surveyed the bodies in the street, making sure they were dead. Then he spun on his heel and ran.
“You distract me from much more important things, boy.”
“Good,” he thought as he ducked into a doorway. He turned inside and shut it behind him in one motion and then apparated, arrived in a featureless room, fell across the bed and shut his eyes. Breathing, he smiled at Voldemort. “You still want to kill me?”
“Yes.”
But Voldemort’s voice was languid now. “Yes, I do; but not yet, not yet.” He could feel Voldemort relax into a mirror of his own posture. “Continue to distract me, Harry - you are becoming interesting in spite of yourself; quite the little Scheherazade. Sing for your supper, Harry. Tell me a story; amuse me.”
“Why do you hate me so much?
“Hate you? I don’t hate you Harry. Such a sentiment is quite beyond me. I simply know that you are a threat to me, though how, I can’t imagine. That is why I will kill you. I would really like to do it myself, Harry - you should be flattered.”
“You can’t control me.”
“Oh, can’t I?” Voldemort’s voice smiled at him.
But Harry persevered. “You can’t make me do what you want. You can’t stand what’s inside me… the --” he was blushing now and he had to take a breath. “The love. Dumbledore said so. You can’t stand it.”
“Now, now, Harry, don’t be shy.” Voldemort’s voice in his mind was sweetly patient. “If you are attempting to charm me with either your virginity or your ignorance I’m afraid it won’t work.
“And it is true that you are full of utterly repulsive sentimentality. Indeed, I find you are the opposite of me in every way. I’m afraid that the muddy tangle of emotion which you call your thoughts is often quite beyond my comprehension. But Dumbledore - I am afraid that I knew Dumbledore much better than you did, and he never told you the whole truth, did he? Never. Be honest Harry. Surely we can be honest with each other. I am your true enemy. I have always been. You don’t have to pretend with me.”
Harry thought of Aunt Petunia dressed for church and suddenly knew what it was that Voldemort reminded him of.
The snake in the garden of Eden.
He reached into his pocket to touch the heavy secret inside, the smooth round metal inside the handkerchief, to feel the way it fit securely into his hand.
~
Harry lay on his back looking up at a blue sky - between entirely unidentifiable trees. He could be anywhere. In fact, he didn’t really know where he was.
And neither did Voldemort. He spread his arms wide, stretching. The sun was warm on his jumper; it glinted in his eyes. So he shut them. And sound came up around him, leaves rustling high above, a bird’s song.
“Are you afraid of me, Harry?”
And he smiled to himself, thinking, “No.”
He was not afraid; not now. This moment was his, his hand came to rest on his chest again, hugging it to him, warm, his legs warm in his trousers. And even though that voice was still in his mind, even though he would never be able to rid himself of Voldemort, he let his hand move over his chest, thinking only of the weight of it.
Voldemort was watching, unable to do anything. Harry's fingers brushed his nipple one by one, slowing, stopping, and then moving back the other way, back and forth, until he had lost track of time. Then his hand was on his stomach, heavy, warm, the thumb digging slowly into his navel.
And Voldemort whispered to him, “Do you ever feel there’s something missing, Harry - missing, but so close - if only you could reach out and touch it?”
“No.” He smiled. Nothing missing. “No. I don’t.”
Then his fingers dug into his belly and he whispered back to Voldemort; “Do you?”
And his fingers were sliding just inside the waistband of his trousers now, making him inhale, his ribs stretching upwards and the yarn of his jumper sliding under them until, yes, he felt fingers touch his bare skin, felt them slip just inside his trousers, making his belly catch and heat flood into his cock, making him roll from side to side to move them back and forth. And then they slid inside as his other hand undid the button, fingers brushing against his cock through his shorts until, oh, bare skin, fingers stroking his cock softly, and he was lost in pleasure.
And Voldemort was silenced. There was nothing, no voice, nothing but the hand stroking his cock, another touching him through his trousers, his legs falling apart to let it move slowly to the inside of one thigh, lightly, just touching, coming closer and then finally slipping around his balls, a shock of warmth, a hot hand holding them, just a little tighter, until he was aching, letting that hand drive him, hoping only for it to continue.
“But Harry, what of the sweet young Ginny?”
His body jerked.
“Don’t you touch her when you kiss her, slide a finger between her thighs, under the elastic, inside?”
“Don’t say things like that about her.”
“Shy, Harry?” The voice itself made him tremble. “No need to be shy with me. I will kill you one of these days, and there is a certain intimacy between enemies, don’t you think? You know exactly what I am.” It was a whisper sliding over his skin. “And I know exactly what you are.”
He managed to gasp, “Really?” But he had to tighten his hand around his cock to hold himself still.
“Is it boys, Harry? Do you watch them -- their shoulders, their mouths, their faces -- do you think about touching them, Harry?”
And the voice belonged to Tom Riddle; tall, perfectly dressed, untouchable. Unbutton his trousers - ridiculous - imagine doing that, his fingers on the soft fabric; opening his mouth and feeling that.
And suddenly his body was alive with sensation, silencing Voldemort’s voice again. Yes, just feel - just burn against the thing in his mind and feel it recoil from him, feel it curl away in antipathy. He sank into desire and felt the presence pull away, sliding between his lips, felt it shiver in repulsion, leaving thin tendrils of coolness as it withdrew, but he knew how to do it now; don’t think, don’t think, sucking, not letting go, feeling the heat and lust and feeling Voldemort react for once.
And then came the voice again, still cool, winding deep into him because he was nothing but a well of sensation.
“I am disappointed in you, Harry. There really is nothing special about you at all. Do you feel that, Harry? Do you know what I can do to you? Do you feel that winding around your heart, squeezing, a little tighter, now? You are a mass of muddy emotion fluttering in my grasp like a captured bird. Do you believe that you are fighting me? Harry; Harry -” the voice crooned softly into his mind.
“You are only drawing me deeper into you.”
But then the words were overwhelmed by the rush in his ears -- the beat of his heart, his blood, his cock in his hand -- and he fell away into oblivion.
~
His rucksack was gone. He was so tired. He felt strangely light and free.
Harry rested for a moment against the brick wall of one of the buildings, behind a dustbin and out of sight of the street. His hand moved automatically to check his pocket. Yes; it was still there. His fingers curled around it.
Around him, the alley was close and dark and quiet. And anonymous -- just like any other alley.
Inside his wet shoes, he could feel his socks sticking to the open blisters on his feet. He would have to find something to wrap them with. But didn’t move. He just rested for a moment, and waited.
Everything was simple now -- there was only the necessity of standing up to Voldemort. Sometimes it was the only thing that kept him going.
“Oh, Harry, Harry; when will you give up?”
He smiled.
“I won’t.”
He turned then, relaxing against the wall, his eyes closed. The rain felt good, though he would have to find some shelter later.
“But you are so noble when you suffer, Harry, so sweet.” It was just a whisper. “Oh, my enemy, you are splendid in your filth and mud.”
And there it was. Voldemort’s pleasure burned him, but he basked in it, tipped his head up, let the rain wash away the dirt and blood in his hair, felt it run over his eyelids.
“Suffering builds character, Harry.”
And he smiled again then, almost laughed. Suffering. He felt the rain on his lips.
“Yes.” Voldemort crooned softly to him, and it was almost as if there were a reason for everything. “Oh, Yes, Harry -- that’s it. Everything you have suffered in your life is due to me. I am the cause of all your pain.” Voldemort’s voice was gentle. “Do you hate me for it, Harry?”
And he spoke the truth. “No.”
“You should. But there is a strange core of something in you, something like steel but moving. I can feel it. Yes, Harry, I am well inside you now, and I know everything.” The voice was cool and smooth and trickled down his spine and around his heart. “You have done this yourself, Harry. You can hide nothing from me.” A long shiver ran through his body, even though he was wrapped in his coat.
“I can feel it -- delightful, really, to find something I had never expected amid all that tangled clinging mire of emotion. And you will persevere despite all reason, won’t you? You will play the hero." The voice caressed him. “You want to be a hero, and you will be; you will be - you will sacrifice yourself in an explosion of sticky dripping sentiment. Are you afraid of me Harry?”
And all his denials had fallen away into humility and quiet dignity.
“Yes.” He spoke the word clearly, aloud here in the rain. “I am afraid of you.” It was soft and sure, and he knew that this would please Voldemort.
“Oh, very good Harry.” Voldemort’s pleasure drove through his skull, but he was ready for it; he embraced it.
“Very good. You should be afraid. Because we are opposites, Harry -- I will have to kill you. I have always known it. It is inevitable for us, Harry. I will never leave you; and you cannot escape me.”
Neither one can live while the other survives.
The thought cascaded through Harry’s mind before he could stop it.
“Oh, Harry, is that it?” Voldemort’s voice was delighted with him. “Is that the prophecy? But it’s hardly worth all the effort you put into hiding it from me; I could have told you that. A disappointment, really -- I am more interested in what you have been carrying in your pocket.”
“Show it to me, Harry,” the voice whispered to him.
And he felt a cold thrill of panic. This was the one thing he had managed to avoid. Because Voldemort knew exactly what was in his pocket already, but if he looked at it, then Voldemort would see the way he felt -- the feeling that had made him wrap it in his handkerchief and keep it in his pocket and never look at it, only touch it without seeing.
But he was really doing this -- he was really going to do this. He was taking it out of his pocket slowly and unwrapping it, the folds of the handkerchief falling away, already damp and heavy with rain. And then there it was; golden, beautiful, and he was seeing it again, the S on its face making him shiver because it was so old; ancient. Slytherin’s locket.
And the feeling rose up in him, even stronger now than it had been the first time; because it was his now - resting in his hand here in the rain in the alley - this was real.
The first time he had seen it, there had been a woman wearing it. A girl in rags, really, a drudge; cowering, hiding it inside her tattered dress. But then she spoke -- and she spoke in parseltongue. He had never seen a woman speaking parseltongue. It seemed strange coming from a woman’s lips. It was a revelation; at that moment he knew where he had come from -- and he wanted very badly to speak to her.
But she was dead. Tom Riddle had seen her and known the same thing. That woman was lost -- irretrievable. He would never speak to her.
And he had avenged her like one of the furies, like justice incarnate. Voldemort was a force of nature; awesome, magnificent, and not human, not at all human. He felt something in his chest opening wide again in helpless wonder.
And Voldemort spoke gently to him, because he must know that he couldn’t move and couldn’t speak. “Harry, you are more human than I was even when I was alive. We cannot abide each other.” And then in a soft whisper that made his heart contract, “it is impossible.”
He never thought about this - never - he had never said anything to anyone. It was nothing but a feeling, but he felt it now. He felt his throat close. He looked at the golden case, still intact, unbroken, and with a piece of Voldemort’s soul inside it. It rested in the palm of his hand. Slowly, his fingers closed around it.
And suddenly Voldemort was full of rage; the shock froze his breath. “Do you covet that, Harry? Do you want to keep it?” It swept through his chest in a icy wave, because he had been completely open and full of tender feeling. “That is mine -- it does not belong to you.”
And the words hammered into his soul because he knew that they were absolutely true. “I have watched you since you were a mewling, puking infant. I created you -- you know that, don’t you? And you created me -- it is your blood that runs in my veins now. And it torments me greatly, do you realize? Your scar hurts you because I am in it, because the substance of me is anathema to you, just as the substance of you is horrible to me. It runs all through me, everywhere, and I cannot rid myself of it, ever.”
“Be sure of it, Harry -- I will kill you. But now I want something different.” And he felt Voldemort’s voice trickling into his ears, his mind, his belly, his cock; he had no defense against it. “Do you know what it is, Harry?” He felt his entire body quail, completely unready for the onslaught.
“This.” It was a breath in his ear. And then the pain rushed into him in a flood; he could not make a sound. This was the way his blood felt in Voldemort’s veins. “Do you feel it? You are such a creature of feeling. You imagine I have some fondness for you? -- Feel this for me. Scream for me, Harry.”
And he did. He screamed silently, because he could not breathe, and the sound filled his mind and his body. For the first time he felt the torment he caused by merely existing. And it was more, it was Voldemort’s utter hatred for him, for his ignorance, his idiotic stupidity, his unthinking nature. His body arched and froze into the scream -- he wanted to beat his hands against the bricks; he wanted to feel his bones crunch against each other, but he could not move.
And then he felt Voldemort’s pleasure. It skittered across the surface of his skin; Voldemort’s interest in him, feeling him out -- it made him gasp.
He gasped, pulling the pain into him.
And everything turned inside out. He felt Voldemort for the first time fully. Had no one else ever felt what Voldemort really was, the whole of him? His mouth gaped open in surprise at what he had not seen before, though it had been there all along, the opposite of himself and linked to him - horrible, beautiful, mesmerizing. He wanted it more than he had wanted anything in his life.
He gasped and all at once the undirected force was moving through his body, spine to belly to limbs to fingers, until the surface of his skin was alive with it, electric. And part of him was dying, but part was coming alive.
When he opened his eyes, it was quiet again, and he was soaked and freezing.
And he wasn’t sure what he remembered, or if what he remembered had actually happened. It was a blur of feelings with Voldemort’s words silken and winding between them.
And Voldemort was gone. He had cut him off. There was no sound but the wind whistling between the walls above him. He listened for Voldemort and heard only the memory of his voice.
He had always been there. Harry had had no idea what it would feel like if he were not. He was crippled, listing and out of balance; part of him gone and everything out of kilter. Nothing was working right. His hands and fingers wouldn’t seem to move. For the first time in his life, he was entirely alone.
But he knew where Voldemort was. He could feel it.
~
Harry looked at himself and laughed. He looked at his reflection in the polished black marble of the walls, in the gilded flickering candlelit splendor all around him, and saw a street kid in filthy clothes. He took off his torn coat and looked again. Filthy, muggle clothes -- baggy -- they had never fit him, even when they were clean and relatively new. He had nothing fit to wear, nothing fit for such a place; he had never had anything like that.
But then he turned away from his reflection and pulled his shirt over his head. He unbuttoned the stiff, muddy jeans and let them fall around his ankles, toed off his shoes impatiently, shedding loyalties, friends, belief, until there was nothing left but himself.
People would do things for love that they would never do for any sane reason. And he didn’t know whether this would kill him, but he didn’t really care.
It was what he wanted.
~
He stood still and quiet just inside the door.
The Death Eaters were a solid wall in front of him, black and impenetrable. But he stood still, because he could do nothing else. And slowly they turned, first one, then another, a few white masks showing now in the black. And then a small space opened up somehow right in front of him, and he took a step forward.
He walked between them slowly, and they parted around him in a rustle of fabric, like water around the prow of a ship. Their white masks turned toward him like the crests of quiet waves as he passed.
And then the final curtain parted and the room opened up before him and he saw Voldemort on his throne, his face glowing white against the darkness. Everything fell still again.
Voldemort was not flesh but pearl transformed by the sea, perfect.
And Voldemort was looking at him. He felt himself shaking - because this was real, now, absolutely real, and he had left his wand outside, in the hallway, in the pocket of his muddy trousers. But what good would his wand do him anyway -- when Voldemort could kill him with two words?
Voldemort had not raised his hand, had not said anything; his face was smooth and unmoving as stone.
So he stepped forward, walking slowly to hide the shaking in his knees. But the shaking in his hand was obvious when he raised it -- he could see it himself, and surely Voldemort could as well, because he was standing before him now.
He opened his fingers and there it was, golden and shining and heavy in his hand; Slytherin’s locket. And he stood still, somehow content, because in a moment it would leave his hand in one way or another, but for now, it rested there. He felt a strange calm come over him, because there was nothing left for him to do; he simply waited.
Then Voldemort stood. And there was a hush; he could feel the room stop breathing.
Voldemort’s hand came close to his, he watched it, but it did not touch him, only hooked one finger through the chain and raised the locket to dangle between them. It spun slowly in midair, suspended. And perhaps it was possible that this could go on forever. Harry felt everything hanging in the balance, but he didn't speak, because there were no words for what he had to offer; it had never been anything more than a feeling.
Then something bumped against his throat. Voldemort’s hands were putting the chain around his neck.
And Voldemort’s eyes were truly red; not human at all. Was there anyone else in this room who knew what Voldemort truly was? Harry couldn't put his thoughts together. All he knew was that the heirloom of Slytherin hung around his neck now, that Voldemort had put it there. It rested heavy and familiar on his throat, with a piece of a soul inside. Voldemort was looking at him. And he had one finger still on the chain; holding Harry by the eyes and by the neck without touching him. Harry felt the silence around them, the amazement, the eyes moving over him. Then with a slip sideways, he saw what Voldemort saw: surprise that he was not a boy any longer, that he was a young man, an endlessly fascinating creature, his opposite, his equal. It came to him as a shock that he was beautiful.
A finger brushed his cheek, and Voldemort was touching him, one finger brushing his cheek again, slowly, really touching him. And he felt his lips open, his face flush with heat; that finger cool on his cheek -- curious -- the fingers of both hands on his face now, his eyelids, his lips, and oh, the tip of one between his lips, his lips hot, his cock, his desire obvious here in front of everyone. And his face heated again in shame, but he kept his eyes open, completely open, never looking away.
And then came Voldemort’s voice, his real voice; a singing murmur in a private language. “I can touch you, but I should not.” His finger rested on Harry’s lips, now, telling him secrets. “You have come up on my blind side.”
Then his robe came up and swept around them, both of them under it, cloaked in darkness -- Voldemort’s body a plunge into cool water, smooth against him everywhere. His skin was alive with it, crackling and burning again, but overwhelming him this time, because this was actually happening. He knew it was real because Voldemort had fallen silent, though he hissed with something like pain. And Harry knew that he was causing it; but when he reached for it, to take it away, to pull it into himself, he was sucking Voldemort into him again, and it was much too late for Voldemort to free himself.
He loved this creature, that was perfectly itself, terrible and purified by time. His desire for Voldemort was an abyss inside him; and he would pull him into himself, he knew, until they were indistinguishable, every part of them connected with every other.
But those hands were still fascinated with him, even now, and his flesh told him that they would never cease prying him open -- that Voldemort’s need to dissect him, to take him apart, would never be satisfied.
And he could feel his body changing under them, his cock suddenly desperate in those fingers; Voldemort really wanting this, holding him, and his whole body soft with emotion -- Voldemort searching out his soul; wanting him, touching him, oh, feel where - fingers stroking into him now, everywhere, inside, oh, please. And all the while, Voldemort was watching him; the other hand holding his chin and keeping him still, fingers on his face, one next to his open mouth -- watching him, but whispering into him, “You are my downfall.”
Feedback: Oh, please ... (concrit welcome!)