Harry didn’t know how this happened. Or well, he did, but it felt almost like the events that led him here happened to someone else. It felt like he had been experiencing his life outside of his own body for years now, and finally, finally , he was himself again. But it wasn’t easy to drag himself back into reality, into the world he had always been a part of but felt separate from since he was 17, since Voldemort’s downfall.
And now, here he was, with Voldemort above him once again.
It shouldn’t have come to this; he knew he shouldn’t have done what he did. He had known for years that it was something that he shouldn’t have done, and yet he did it anyway.
Harry’s distance from reality began the morning after Voldemort’s defeat. The day that had followed Voldemort’s demise had flown by, given everything Harry had to do. Between fixing his wand, putting the Elder Wand back in Dumbledore’s grave, fixing Hogwarts, and saying goodbye to those they had lost during the night, Harry had no time to dwell on what it meant for Voldemort to have been truly defeated. There was nothing left of him, no pieces of his soul anchored anywhere in the world. Harry, Hermione, and Ron had hunted them all down, defeating piece by piece, save for three. One was destroyed by Dumbledore, one by Neville, and one by Voldemort himself when he tried for the millionth time to kill Harry.
That night Harry slept in Gryffindor tower, too tired to go anywhere else after everything that had happened. It wasn’t as though he had a home to go back to; Hogwarts was the closest thing he’d ever had to a home. The Weasleys would have taken him in, he knew, but given everything that had happened, everything they had lost, he thought it better to give them a night to themselves.
Hermione also stayed at Hogwarts that night, though it wouldn’t be her last night there, unlike Harry.
Harry thought for sure he would sleep better than he ever had, but in truth, he had never slept worse. Something was off as he finally dozed off to sleep. It was the first time he had ever fallen asleep in Hogwarts without the threat of Voldemort looming over him, and maybe that was why his sleep was fitful.
The following day, when he woke up, he no longer felt like Harry Potter.
For years, that feeling lingered through his auror training, through marriage, through the births of his children. Harry knew on some level that he was Harry Potter; he just didn’t feel like it anymore. It was as though some part of him truly had died with Voldemort, something that wasn’t just the horcrux.
Harry never said anything, though, not to Ginny, Ron or Hermione, or anyone. He didn’t quite know who he could talk to about it, who would understand what exactly he was going through. He thought about asking McGonagall to speak to Dumbledore’s portrait, to see if maybe his former mentor had any idea as to why Harry felt the way he did, but he never followed through on that idea. How could he? How could he ever explain that he didn’t feel like himself anymore? He felt trapped in a foreign body, somewhere outside of his own, while someone else lived his life for him.
He couldn’t explain, and more than that, he wasn’t entirely certain he wanted to explain.
For 13 years, he lived without Voldemort; for 13 years, he didn’t feel like himself. And then the dreams began.
Dreams of Voldemort, of the horcrux that had lived within him. Of everything he had lost the night leading up to and the morning of Voldemort’s defeat.
He began to wonder who he was without Lord Voldemort, who was Harry Potter, the Chosen One, the Boy Who Lived, without the threat he was born to defeat. It wasn’t that Harry had a problem with being ordinary; truthfully, he longed for it his whole life. It was something different, an absence that he could never truly explain.
The only time Harry felt like himself was at night, during those dreams. Dreams of crimson eyes, pale skin, and a high, sharp voice. Sometimes the dreams were of himself, except he wasn’t quite normal. He had red eyes and a snake-like nose, but everything else was Harry. His wild hair, his body. Those were nights he dreamed of the horcrux. The rare dreams were of Tom Riddle before he ever became Voldemort. Harry would dream of bomb shelters, of children who taunted him and told him not even his own parents loved him, of caves with darkness lurking in every corner.
He was never afraid of those dreams. Waking up felt more like a nightmare than any of the dreams ever had.
But still, Harry said nothing.
His children grew, Ginny aged. But once the dreams began, Harry stopped aging with them.
By the time his children were in their 30s, Harry looked like he could be their sibling rather than their father. He tried to find answers, the reason why he wasn’t changing. But everywhere he turned, he seemed to find another dead end. He could never bring himself to go far for his searches, though, knowing that eventually, his searching would lead him away from his family and that he couldn’t do.
At least not until Ginny died.
And then, Harry was alone.
He had his children, certainly, and eventually grandchildren. But his children didn’t need their father the way they had when they were younger. It was only then, after his children had started having lives and careers and, in some cases, families of their own, that Harry let himself travel farther for the answers he wanted.
He searched everywhere, scouring the darkest corners, fighting the most vicious of beasts, meeting the worst and best people. And still, no one and nothing could ever seem to explain why he was so terribly apart and why he never aged.
Harry traveled the globe, crisscrossing back and forth as he chased lead after lead. And still, he found nothing.
Eventually, he found his way back to Hogwarts. By the time Harry returned, Neville Longbottom was the headmaster. He asked for permission, not to enter the school itself, but to return to the Forbidden Forest, in hopes that maybe he could find the piece of himself he had left behind all those years ago as he briefly greeted death.
He never found the piece of himself he was missing, but he did find something that was long buried in the forest floor.
The Resurrection Stone.
At first, he didn’t call anyone as he held that familiar stone in his hand. It had been years since he last held it, and at the time, he was determined to leave it where it was. He didn’t know why he picked it up now, what called him to retrieve it. And for days, the stone sat on his dresser, staring at him with an unthinking and unfeeling eye, made of the symbol of the Deathly Hallows.
He never quite believed the whole story when it came to the Deathly Hallows. He knew, of course, that the part about the cloak was real, though his cloak had long since been passed down to his grandchildren. Since he was still alive, he was master of the Elder Wand, and now he had the Resurrection Stone. The objects were real; he had known this for years. But the effect of them, becoming the Master of Death, was not. Harry hadn’t aged since he was 30, and the last time he’d had all of the objects together, he was 17.
He knew the reason he was still alive wasn’t because of some story that had likely been warped over the years. It was something else.
So, he left the Resurrection Stone alone for days, not touching it because he didn’t know who he would call for.
Would he call for his parents? His parents, who he was supposed to see again when he died, but death had yet to come for him. Would he call for Sirius? Sirius, who had died because of Harry. Would he call for Remus and tell him what had become of his son, who now had a daughter of his own? Would he call for Dumbledore and ask what the man knew and why he had yet to die? Would he call Ginny, who he had laid to rest years before?
He could never decide, and so, he never touched it.
That was until one night.
He wasn’t surprised at the dream or who was in it, and it never worried him to hear that hypnotic hissing that he could no longer understand. Harry hadn’t been able to speak Parseltongue since the destruction of the horcrux within him. What did surprise him, though, was the feeling of hands wrapping around his throat.
Harry woke to find someone standing over him, someone he didn’t recognize.
It wasn’t much of a struggle to fight off his attacker, but in the scramble, the Resurrection Stone fell off his dresser.
After the fight, he looked for it, and for the first time in days, his fingers wrapped around it.
He didn’t call for anyone, he didn’t ask anyone to appear, but that didn’t stop him.
“Well, well,” A voice said as Harry’s fingers closed around the stone. “Here we are again, Harry.”
Harry stood, seeing the familiar face of Tom Riddle in front of him. He was older than he looked the last time he appeared the way he did now, similar to when visiting Hepzibah Smith. Yet he looked human, unlike the last time Harry had seen him. He imaged that the man before him would be what Tom Riddle looked like if he had never created horcruxes, if he had never torn apart his soul and his body along with it. His hair was still dark, but there were the beginnings of silver streaks in it. He looked human, and to Harry, that was far more terrifying than his snake-like visage had ever been.
Yet Harry wasn’t exactly afraid.
“What are you doing here?” He asked.
“I could ask you the same question. It was you who brought me here.”
Harry huffed. “Guess that’s what I get for grabbing this after having a dream.” He dropped the stone onto the dresser, hoping that once he let it go, Tom — or was it Voldemort — would vanish.
“The stone didn’t bring me here,” Tom said, staring down at the Resurrection Stone. “I suppose it shouldn’t surprise me that you have that. It is, after all, mine. ”
“You said the stone didn’t bring you here,” Harry began, ignoring Tom’s other statement. “Then what did?”
Tom’s dark eyes were on him again as he raised an eyebrow. “You did.”
Harry huffed again. “You said that already.”
Tom rolled his eyes before glaring at Harry with the same fierceness Harry was used to. “I mean your magic. You. You’ve been calling out for years.”
Harry huffed for the third time. “Nice try.”
“You really haven’t figured it out, have you?”
“Figured out what?”
Voldemort looked at the boy who had only grown into a man in their time apart. It had been years since they were face to face like this, but that didn’t mean Voldemort hadn’t seen him since.
He wasn’t sure what he expected to happen when he died. He thought maybe it would be nothingness, pure emptiness to greet him. He was told that death resulted in an afterlife that was either peaceful or punishment when he was growing up. Even at a young age, the matron and other workers of the orphanage told him he was going to Hell. Even at a young age, they assumed that he was possessed, that the strange things that occurred around him were because he had a demon living within him.
Most of all, he thought death was a sign of weakness. Only the weak died, and he, the powerful and fearsome Voldemort, would not die.
And yet, the boy — now a man — in front of him had been the source of his demise. Harry Potter was his undoing.
So, when he finally faced death, he didn’t know what to expect.
What he faced, though, was not what he thought it would be. Strangely enough, he never truly felt like he died except for one moment. He thought as he stared into the strange light that threatened to consume him that he would soon cease to exist. His legacy, while dark, was short, and soon, he would be forgotten; the ultimate death. And yet, as that light crept closer, something else seemed to move with it, searching from somewhere behind him until he was dragged away.
At first, he didn’t recognize whatever it was that had stolen him from death. After a while, though, as he adjusted to the new space he found himself in, he realized he was not quite dead, but not quite alive either. And he knew whatever had saved him was familiar.
It took very little time for him to figure out what.
It was magic, and more precisely, it was Harry Potter’s magic.
At first, he recoiled. Of all the people who could have saved him, it was the very person who was fated to be his downfall.
So for the first, however long — Voldemort didn’t know, there was no time wherever he was — he avoided Harry. He refused to answer the boy’s calls even though they were constant and unyielding. For years, he listened to Harry call out for him until one day, he finally answered.
And then Harry pushed him away.
It was for that reason and that reason alone that Voldemort kept coming back when Harry called. He was curious why Harry kept calling for him and yet pushing him away every time he answered. After all, what did he have to lose by answering? He had more to lose by staying away. He knew there was a chance that Harry would stop calling one day, and then death would come for him once again.
So, for years, Voldemort had been answering every call of Harry’s. He was only ever able to interact with Harry at night in his sleep, but that didn’t mean that he wasn’t able to glimpse parts of Harry’s life after a while. He watched as Harry stopped aging immediately after he started answering those calls. He watched as Harry’s children grew up and started lives of their own. He watched as Harry succeeded in his job, and he watched as Harry lost his wife. He watched for years as Harry searched for answers, answers that Voldemort himself had figured out long ago.
Briefly, he entertained the idea that watching Harry live his life was Voldemort’s eternal punishment. Harry would live, be immortalized, and even as he died, his legacy never would. Voldemort’s death was final, but Harry’s was only the beginning of a legacy that would never end. Harry had achieved immortality, something Voldemort tried and failed to do.
“You haven’t felt the same since the day you defeated me,” Voldemort said, returning his thoughts to the situation at hand.
“That’s not a question.”
“And that wasn’t a denial.” Years ago, Voldemort might have been smug at catching Harry in such away. Now, he could barely care.
“What about it?” Harry’s emerald eyes narrowed.
“I think that was when you first started calling when you first saved me.”
“Saved you? Why would I save you?”
“I don’t think you knew what you did,” Voldemort continued, ignoring the sarcasm in Harry’s voice. “But I never quite died, and even now, I’m still not dead. I’m not alive either. It was you who pulled me back from death. And for years, you called. Yet when I finally answered, you shoved me away. Again and again. We’ve been doing this dance for years, Harry. Don’t you remember?”
Harry blinked at him, confusion evident in his emerald eyes. Voldemort had wondered how much of his dreams Harry remembered, and now he knew it wasn’t much. At least, not enough to remember the events in them or what Harry had done during the night.
Voldemort debated reminding him what he had done in his sleep, but he saved that particular torment for another time. He knew what it would do to Harry, how he would feel if reminded. So, instead, he continued with his previous train of thought.
“Do you remember what happened all those years ago that made you stop aging?”
Harry’s brows furrowed for a second before he shook his head. “Nothing happened. I just stopped aging.”
Voldemort rolled his eyes. He couldn’t help it. “Perhaps you should think on it more.”
“Perhaps you should go away,” Harry answered, his voice mocking.
“Then send me away,” Voldemort retorted. Yet nothing happened; he was still there, standing in front of Harry, who could still clearly see him. “When you decide to stop lying to yourself, let me know.” He turned away from Harry and toward the still form of the man who had broken into Harry’s house. “In the meantime-“
“You’re not going to kill him,” Harry said sternly, with more conviction than Voldemort had heard him speak in years.
“He tried to kill you,” Voldemort reminded him.
“As if you care,” Harry snapped.
Voldemort turned, looking at Harry over his shoulder. “I thought you knew by now. The only person who can kill you is me.”
When Harry woke, Tom was still there, sitting in a chair by the window. He thought for certain Tom would leave after he dragged the limp body away of Harry’s attacker. He didn’t know what happened to the man, but he assumed it wasn’t pretty. Harry was sure that Tom, now somewhat corporeal, would leave him. But instead, Tom returned to Harry’s room, grabbing the same chair he was in now, before setting it by the window.
“You’re still here,” Harry muttered, rubbing his eyes before grabbing his glasses.
“Where else would I be?” Tom asked, still staring out the window.
“I don’t know,” Harry answered. “Maybe trying to take over the wizarding world again.”
Tom’s lips twitched, but he didn’t say anything.
“Why are you so,” Harry paused. “Normal?”
It was then that Tom turned to him, raising an eyebrow as he did. “Who do I have left to pretend for? My followers are gone, and even if their children or grandchildren were around, they wouldn’t come if I called. You made sure of that. The only person left in this world that knows me is you.”
“But even the younger you was different,” Harry answered, shifting to face Tom more.
“The younger me had yet to die. I have. I’ve died eight deaths and experienced what it was like not truly to be dead or alive, twice. Could you have gone through that and not come out different?”
“No,” Harry conceded. “Probably not.” Harry was quiet for a moment before focusing on Tom again. “But some things are the same. You’d still kill.”
“That’s not going to change, Harry.” Tom looked away from him and toward the window. “I remember everything, even things that didn’t happen directly to me but occurred with one of my horcruxes. I remember you in the Chamber, and I remember the weeks you spent with my locket around your neck.” Tom finally turned to look at him again.
Harry met his gaze, the two of them watching each other silently until Tom continued.
“There’s no one in the world who knows me better than you, and there’s no one in the world who knows you better than me. We’re stuck together.”
“Oh, great.” Harry huffed.
“My thoughts exactly.”
They didn’t talk anymore after that as Harry readied himself for the day, not that he had anything exciting to do. He started making breakfast before realizing that he might have to cook for two though he wasn’t entirely sure if Tom could eat.
“You brought me here; you make the rules,” Tom answered when Harry asked.
“So does that mean I could make you not kill if I wanted?” Harry asked, not that he truly cared one way or another.
“No,” Tom answered. “You can alter the rules on how I interact with this world, but not my personality.”
“So, if I wanted you to be real, then I have to deal with the fact that you can kill.”
“Essentially,” Tom sounded bored as he spoke.
“Why did I bring you here?” Harry asked, not expecting an answer.
“Loneliness, boredom, emptiness.” Tom supplied. “Take your pick.”
“I lived a full life without you, you know. I wasn’t exactly lonely when you started showing up in my dreams.”
“But you’ve not felt whole in years, have you?”
Harry paused, his hand frozen as he tried to plate their breakfast. “How do you know that?”
“You told me.”
Harry sighed and continued his previous task. “How could I have told you? You made it seem that more happened in my dreams than I remember? Did we talk? Is that what I’m missing?”
“More than that,” Tom told him.
“How do I know this is real? Maybe you’re just my imagination, and I’m talking to myself.”
Tom narrowed his eyes at him for a moment before reaching up to press a finger against Harry’s scar. For the first time in years, a lifetime even, it burned, forcing Harry to drop the plate he was holding.
“Am I real to you yet?”
For the next several weeks, Harry grew used to having Tom around him. Not that those weeks were exactly easy. Tom seemed to enjoy his new, semi-alive state a little too much to the point that Harry had to talk him out of several murders, even though most of the time Tom’s threatened murders were of people who merely looked at Harry the wrong way. When they were alone, though, it was different.
Tom wasn’t kind, but he wasn’t cruel either. Not to Harry. It reminded Harry of those moments in the graveyard after being first resurrected when Voldemort told him about his life and childhood. It was apparent at the time that Harry’s life was in danger, yet Voldemort had been calm, softer even in a way.
Tom seemed to be softer on Harry in general now. He watched whatever Harry was doing, not that Harry had much left to do these days. He didn’t need more money, even when he worked had added to the Potter vaults, and now his children did the same. He had given the house he lived in with Ginny, where his children grew up, to his oldest child, James, who now raised his family there.
It was too hard for Harry to stay where he had once lived with Ginny, but time had eased other wounds, which was how he found himself at Grimmauld Place, where he now lived. He had rearranged things over the years, giving Kreacher more space until he died. Kreacher never served him but lived more like a roommate until his death. Harry had even given him the picture of Walburga, mostly so that he didn’t have to listen to her wailing every time a pot fell.
He kept some things the same, leaving Sirius’s room practically untouched, but others he reorganized and made his own. For a while, he debated giving Tom a room of his own, but Tom never seemed to sleep, and it wasn’t as though they were tied together. Tom could leave Harry’s side if he wanted, he could go anywhere in the house and maybe even outside it, yet he chose to return to Harry’s room every night, staring out the window.
Harry grew used to Tom’s constant presence, and in a way, it was almost comforting, familiar. As Tom said, he knew Harry better than anyone else; only Tom had known him his whole life. Maybe that was why Harry felt a little more whole when Tom was around, a little more himself.
“You told me you died eight deaths,” Harry said one night as he crawled into bed. “Does that mean you have all the memories, or is your soul whole again?”
“It’s whole again,” Tom answered.
“Could you make more horcruxes then?”
“No.” He turned toward Harry as he pulled the covers up over himself. “I’m not alive. Not really. I can interact with the world and the people in it, people can see me, but my heart does not beat. Any moment you could send me away. I am at the mercy of your whims. Without a life to preserve, I cannot make a horcrux.”
“Do you miss it? Being alive?”
“Really? But I thought you were afraid of death.”
“I’m not dead either. You saw to that.”
Harry was silent for a moment as he looked down at the edge of the covers where they rested against the bed. He was on his side, looking at Tom. Tom still stared out the window, the moonlight lighting up his pale face. His dark hair seemed to shine in the light, but it only served to make his dark eyes darker. The pale moonlight accentuated his cheekbones, and as he stared out the window, he reminded Harry of a statue of a god.
“Why can’t I die?”
Tom sighed through his nose then turned to look at Harry. “What do you remember about the day you stopped aging?”
Harry shrugged. “It was just a day. It was my birthday. I didn’t even realize I had stopped aging until a few years later when I looked exactly the same as I had on that day.” He furrowed his brow. “I started having dreams of you that day.”
“Do you know the one thing you can’t do with your magic, Harry?”
“A lot probably,” Harry huffed, attempting humor. But Tom wasn’t having it. His gaze narrowed at Harry, obviously annoyed. “I don’t know.” He answered eventually.
“The one thing magic cannot do is kill the person who has it. You can kill others; you can alter the past, the future; you can fly to amazing heights and even attempt immortality. But you cannot kill yourself with your own magic.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because you tried.”
Harry shot up, shaking his head immediately. “No. No way. I wouldn’t.”
“You did,” Tom said, his voice calm and even. “Magic is tricky; it won’t let you use it to kill yourself. So, when you tried, it went the opposite direction. It kept you alive, made it so that you could never die. I don’t know how and years ago, I would have been envious even. But I do know that it was your magic that saved you, just like it saved me.”
Harry looked down at the blankets again, his brain trying and failing to process what Tom had told him.
“You’re lying,” He said, though it was a feeble attempt at a protest, and even Harry, deep down, knew that.
“I have nothing left to lie about.”
“There are other things you’re not telling me. That’s like lying.” Harry snapped.
“I don’t think you want to hear what I have to say.”
“You’re right about that,” Harry huffed before turning over on his side away from Tom.
He had to be lying. Tom was lying. He wouldn’t try to kill himself. He wouldn’t. Tom was lying to him.
He had to be.
Yet that night, Harry dreamed of his 30th birthday and how that night, before he tried to go to bed, he found himself staring in the mirror, remembering how empty he felt, how out of his body he felt, following Voldemort’s death.
Harry woke before things grew too intense, but he remembered looking at himself in the mirror, seeing his own magic flare around him for the first time.
Harry gasped into the darkness, blinking rapidly but seeing nothing. Next to him, a chair shifted slightly before Tom slid into view. He didn’t look concerned, exactly, but he was focused intently on Harry as he sat on the edge of the bed. His eyes searched Harry’s for a moment, flitting back and forth before he took a deep breath.
Tom didn’t say anything more, but he didn’t leave either, sitting on the edge of Harry’s bed as though he was trying to be comforting but didn’t know how.
Harry didn’t know what compelled him forward but seeing Tom there, so human and normal, even while he could practically see the darkness that still rolled under his skin was enough to force Harry toward him until their lips crashed together.
Tom kissed him back immediately, which was enough to surprise Harry but not enough to force him to pull away. Instead, he pushed forward, needing some form of comfort that he could strangely find in Tom’s grasp.
Tom didn’t fight him or push him away as Harry practically climbed into his lap, the position feeling all too familiar though he didn’t know why.
The familiar feeling of Tom under him made Harry feel somewhat frantic as he began to tug at Tom’s shirt, pulling up and away from his body. Tom wasn’t exactly warm, but he wasn’t cold either as Harry’s arms wrapped around him, still stealing frantic kiss after frantic kiss.
Tom tugged at Harry’s shirt next, sending it flying across the room until it fell onto something. Harry didn’t care what, and he didn’t even care when he heard something fall to the floor afterward. He only cared that he had Tom wrapped in his arms, their bodies grinding together.
He had never been this frantic before when it came to sex, not that he’d ever had much experience. He’d only ever been with one other person, Ginny, and that was always slow and gentle. But Harry didn’t want slow and gentle. He wanted to feel something. Anything.
“Let me borrow your magic for a moment,” Tom whispered against his lips, and Harry nodded, not even thinking twice about what Tom wanted to use it for.
Luckily for Harry, it didn’t seem to be anything sinister as Harry’s insides tingled lightly before Tom pressed a wet finger against his hole.
Harry jumped slightly as Tom pressed into him, surprised at the feeling even though this, too, felt familiar. Neither of them had bothered to remove their pants yet, not that it stopped Harry’s straining cock from brushing against Tom when they ground together.
Tom pressed into him, slipping a finger into Harry almost too easily, as though he had done this before. But Harry was sure they hadn’t. Not that he thought too much about it. He was too busy repeatedly and emphatically kissing Tom.
Harry rocked back on Tom’s finger, taking it deeper when he could before rocking forward to press his cock against Tom’s.
He didn’t care that the man below him was Voldemort, and yet he did at the same time. It was electrifying in a way for Harry to remember who exactly Tom Riddle was, who he became, and who they had once been to each other. Who they were now, he had no idea, and he honestly didn’t care.
Tom pressed another finger into Harry, burying it with the same ease as the first one. Harry’s hips moved more, no longer the same grinding motion, but closer to moving up and down as though he was riding Tom’s fingers.
The idea sounded so appealing to him that he began to do just that, pulling himself away as much he could, given their proximity and the fact that he still had his sleep pants on. Tom adjusted his fingers, crooking them slightly, so every fall of Harry’s hips forced his fingers to graze Harry’s prostate. Harry moaned into Tom’s mouth, feeling Tom tug at his hair as he did.
He wished he knew what compelled him to do such a thing, to share such an intimate moment with Tom – Voldemort – of all people, yet he never once stopped himself from doing so.
Instead, he kept up the same pace, letting moan after moan fall on Tom’s lips.
He should have wondered why Tom himself was allowing this, why he caved so quickly to Harry’s onslaught, but he never stopped to wonder.
He rolled his hips as Tom added a third finger, stretching Harry’s rim slightly. Harry moaned again, grinding down on Tom’s fingers and brushing their cocks together once more.
That seemed to spur Tom into action as suddenly Harry went flying backward, his head landing on his pillow as Tom moved over him. He tore Harry’s pants for his body before their lips crashed together again, and his fingers slid back into Harry’s body.
Harry moaned, arching into a feeling of Tom’s fingers fucking him open, stretching him as he did. Tom’s fingers crooked again, pressing against Harry’s prostate as they rocked together for a while, pleasure washing over Harry in waves.
He wasn’t able to stop his orgasm when it came; it barreled through him with intensity, painting his lower abdomen.
“I’m not done with you yet,” Tom muttered, pulling his fingers from Harry’s body.
Harry barely had time to comprehend before Tom’s own pants went flying, and suddenly his weight settled over Harry. Harry wrapped his whole body around Tom, a Promethean effort as it took all of Harry’s energy to make his jelly-like limbs move. But Tom didn’t seem to care as he adjusted himself, slipping his now lubed cock into Harry’s hole.
And that felt all too familiar.
So familiar, in fact, that Harry knew they had done this before.
His dreams started coming back to him as he heard that same hypnotic hissing, felt Voldemort’s hands run over him, felt their lips crash together as they had this night, and felt the same cock press into his body.
This was what Tom hadn’t told him yet. This was what had happened in his dreams.
Harry barely had time to care as soon Tom was rocking, battering Harry’s already abused and overwhelmed prostate and sending Harry straight into overstimulation. His whole body shook and felt like it was on fire as Tom’s hips rocked forward, pressing into Harry’s body.
For the first time, Harry felt like himself again as Tom fucked into him roughly. He wasn’t gentle; he wasn’t careful; he wasn’t loving or slow. He was brutal and passionate as he took Harry, and truly, he was taking him. All Harry could do was hold on for dear life as Tom seemed determined to fuck it out of him.
Tom’s hands were rested on either side of Harry’s head, holding himself up as he thrust wildly into Harry’s body. The bed squeaked under them, and Harry's body was pushed up the bed until his shoulders were pressed against Tom’s forearms with the force of his thrusts.
Tom claimed his mouth again, stealing the breath from Harry’s lungs as he kissed him. His teeth bit into Harry’s lip, and Harry could taste blood in their next kiss, but it didn’t matter.
He reached up to grasp Tom’s silvering hair, tugging lightly and enjoying the near growl that the action elicited. Tom reached between them, taking Harry’s cock in hand and jerking in time with his thrusts. It didn’t take long for Harry to grow hard again, though it was nearly painful.
Tom never once relented, though, claiming Harry so thoroughly that he knew he would feel it the next day.
Harry couldn’t stop himself from dragging his nails down Tom’s back, feeling Tom’s body press into his as he did.
His hand never let go of Harry’s cock, though, drawing a second, blinding, painful orgasm from him. Harry nearly screamed at the feeling of his body arching into Tom’s even as Tom kept pounding into him ruthlessly.
He only ever stopped for one moment as he rolled Harry’s practically useless body over until Harry was on his stomach. Then Tom pushed back into him, hitting Harry’s prostate head-on as he did.
Harry’s whole body jumped, his head flying back until it collided with Tom’s shoulder. Tom wasted no time wrapping his hand around Harry’s throat, working himself back up to that same punishing pace.
It would have been cruel, and Harry’s overstimulated body certainly thought so, but his mind was far too gone to care. Part of him liked it, feeling taken, claimed, owned. And Tom, ever the possessive person, was the only person who could have made him feel such away.
Harry’s body was truly on fire now. He felt like acid was poured into his veins, but he clung to the feeling, needing it more than he ever needed anything in his life. Tom's hips collided with Harry’s ass, making the sound of skin-on-skin contact echo through the room.
Tom dipped his head, his teeth finding Harry’s neck easily and biting, and Harry felt like he orgasmed all over again.
Tom never once let up, keeping himself buried in Harry’s body over and over again. He drew up Harry’s hips slightly as Harry practically snarled, too overwhelmed to make a different noise.
“Is this what you needed, Harry?” Tom whispered in his ear, his voice nearly a hiss. “Am I what you needed?”
“Yes,” Harry answered, though he wasn’t sure how.
“Do you remember now? How we’ve done this before? How many times I’ve had you? How many times I’ve made you mine? How many times you kept coming back, begging to feel something again?”
Harry moaned, the ability to form actual words was wholly gone now.
Tom hissed something, though Harry didn’t know what; all he knew was the sound traveled straight through him to his aching cock.
“You can’t feel normal without me,” Tom continued, no longer hissing. “You need me.”
“You,” Harry gasped. “Need. Me. Too.”
Tom growled, thrusting forward so harshly that Harry’s whole body shook with the force of it. He came again, his cock barely managing to force another release out before Tom thrust into him twice more and came inside him.
Their bodies collapsed, Harry still under Tom as they breathed heavily.
He didn’t know how long they laid there, as Harry’s overwhelmed mind and body began to calm down again. He didn’t move, feeling strangely comfortable under Tom’s weight.
“Feel normal?” Tom asked, his nose brushing against Harry’s ear.
“Yes,” Harry answered, though it was no louder than a whisper. “Why did that work?”
“Because you need me,” Tom answered, pressing a kiss against his shoulder. It was a sweet gestured that Harry didn’t know Tom was capable of. “We’ve been bound in magic, blood, and souls. Do you think you could take that away and not feel something missing?”
“No,” Harry answered, stretching slightly. “But why does this work? Sex?”
“It’s the closeness,” Tom told him. “You need it. You can’t live without it.” Tom hummed. “Or well, you could. But you don’t want to. You want me.”
“I didn’t hear you protesting,” Harry answered with a huff. “You want me too.”
“I’ve always coveted powerful things. Given the chance, I’d covet you too. I already do.”
Harry turned as best he could until he and Tom were face to face.
“Why would you help me?”
Tom dipped his head, moving to press his lips next to Harry’s ear. “Maybe it’s the only time I feel normal too.”
At the same time, his fingers slipped between Harry’s legs, pressing against his used hole before pushing inside him again. Harry gasped, his back arching.
Eventually, Harry lost track of how many times he came or in how many different positions. He thought maybe his favorite was when he was over Tom, riding him and watching the darkness swirl behind his eyes. He was in danger, there above the once Dark Lord, yet it didn’t stop him from taking what he wanted. Just as Tom never stopped.
By the morning, Harry was aching, barely able to walk. Yet, he had never felt more like Harry Potter in his life as he stretched his sore body in Tom’s arms.
“Are you going to leave?” Harry found himself asking.
“Are you going to make me?” Tom asked in return.
“Then sadly, I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.”
“Oh, the horror,” Harry teased.
Harry turned and stretched, ignoring the pain in his body in favor of the press of Tom’s lips. He could handle this if it was the price he had to pay to feel like himself. He could handle living with Tom — Voldemort — because it seemed they needed each other the same way. Tom tucked Harry back against him, and while Harry knew Tom would never truly love him, he could be content like this.