Harry woke up at the Burrow, his heart racing and his body drenched in sweat. The familiar walls did little to comfort him; his mind was still trapped in the nightmarish haze. The events of the previous night replayed vividly—his brief encounter with Voldemort in the sky, the flashes of green light, and the frantic desperation to stay hidden. But it wasn’t just that. The dreams had been relentless. Night after night, he saw Voldemort searching for something, driven by a hunger that seemed to transcend mere power.
Days passed, and Harry’s anxiety grew. It gnawed at him, a constant reminder that time was slipping away. While the others busied themselves with wedding preparations, Harry’s thoughts kept drifting back to those dreams. He could feel it—Voldemort was close, so close to finding whatever it was he was seeking. Harry couldn’t stand the inaction, the feeling of being powerless to stop him.
One night, the dream was different. He found himself in an eerie darkness, and there, at the center, stood Voldemort. But he was not the grotesque figure that haunted his memories. Instead, he looked human—young and handsome, just as he had appeared in the memories Dumbledore had shown him. His eyes glinted with triumph, and he stared down at Harry with a kind of hunger.
Harry awoke with a start, but the dream lingered, twisting around him like a dark cloud. As he descended the stairs, the lively chatter and warmth of the kitchen felt out of place. Mrs. Weasley was busy preparing breakfast, the smell of eggs and bacon filling the air. But even the familiar atmosphere could not dispel the unease Harry felt. He glanced at the table where the Daily Prophet lay, his blood running cold at the headline that confirmed his worst fears: Voldemort had regained his human appearance.
His friends noticed his distant demeanor, but Harry could not bring himself to explain. How could he? The dreams had become increasingly vivid, bordering on real. It wasn’t just memories or visions anymore—it was as if Voldemort himself was reaching out to him, taunting him. He could no longer brush it off as a coincidence.
After the chaos of the wedding and the frantic escape to Grimmauld Place, they finally managed to retrieve the locket, only to realize they were no safer than before. Now hidden deep within the forest, Harry, Ron, and Hermione struggled to devise a plan. But even in the safety of the tent, Harry’s sleep offered no reprieve. The dreams took on a life of their own, and in them, Harry often encountered a younger version of Voldemort, one who was strangely affectionate.
At first, Harry dismissed it as another manipulation. But as the nights wore on, he found himself oddly comforted by the young man’s presence. There was a warmth in his voice, an intensity in his gaze that seemed to transcend mere darkness. Despite knowing the danger, Harry couldn’t help but be drawn in. It was as if a part of him yearned for that connection, even if it meant giving himself over to the enemy.
Then, one night, the dream shifted again. This time, Harry wasn’t greeted by the kinder visage. Instead, the Voldemort who now stood before him was the one who had declared himself the new Minister of Magic just days before. His eyes glinted with cruel amusement as he looked down at Harry, a smirk curling his lips.
“You’ve hidden well, Harry,” he said, his voice a low purr. “But there’s no point in it. You will come to me in the end.”
Anger flared within Harry. How could this part of him, this treacherous sliver, be so willing to yield to Voldemort’s will? He thought of the lives depending on him—of all the people who had fought and died to give him this chance. He could not surrender, not when so much was at stake. But his resolve wavered, especially when Voldemort's voice grew softer, almost enticing.
Each night after that, the dreams became more intense. The young Voldemort continued to appear, whispering promises and coaxing him to let go. Harry felt himself slipping further, and every morning, it was Hermione who had to wake him from his restless sleep, concern etched on her face.
Finally, it came to a head one night. Harry found himself in the dimly lit room of his dreams, feeling the familiar oppressive atmosphere settle around him. This time, Voldemort was different—he approached Harry from behind, his presence unsettlingly close. Harry felt a shiver run down his spine as the Dark Lord’s voice whispered against his ear.
“Stop running from me, Harry,” he murmured, his tone dripping with dark allure. “You know you belong to me. It’s your destiny.”
The older man’s hands slid around Harry’s waist, pulling him close. His breath was hot against Harry’s neck, sending a thrill through his entire body. Harry’s breathing quickened, his heart pounding in his chest. That small, insidious voice inside of him begged to give in, to submit completely, to admit that he was Voldemort’s. But his rational mind screamed at him to resist, to fight back. Yet, it was difficult to think clearly when Voldemort’s fingers slipped under his shirt, tracing lines across his skin, and when he felt the graze of teeth against his neck.
“Stop resisting, darling,” Voldemort purred, his voice wrapping around Harry like a velvet chain. “There’s no need for this struggle. You just need to be mine.”
Harry’s body trembled as the words washed over him, and for a moment, it felt like he was falling. But then, with a surge of willpower, he tore himself away, the dream shattering into darkness.
He woke with a start, gasping for breath, his skin prickling with the remnants of Voldemort's touch. It took several moments for him to realize where he was and that it had been just another dream—albeit one that felt far too real.
But the ache of those whispered words lingered. And somewhere in the depths of his mind, that dark voice continued to beckon him, pulling him ever closer to the edge.
---
Harry could feel himself unraveling. The nightmares, the visions, the Dark Lord's voice constantly whispering in his mind—it was becoming too much to bear. In a desperate attempt to escape the relentless assault, he decided to avoid sleep as much as possible. His friends noticed his increasing irritability and exhaustion, attributing it to the locket's influence. The Horcrux seemed to grow heavier with each passing day, as if feeding on his dwindling strength. They decided to take turns wearing it, hoping to share the burden until they could find a way to destroy it.
Harry’s determination to stay awake bordered on obsession. Even during the rare moments when he was too exhausted to keep his eyes open, he refused to give in. He took to pacing outside the tent, forcing his eyes wide open, muttering reminders to himself that sleep would only bring him closer to Voldemort’s clutches. But the lack of rest began to take its toll. The lines under his eyes darkened, his movements became sluggish, and he struggled to focus even on the simplest tasks.
It was only a matter of time before he couldn’t fight it anymore.
One night, his body simply gave out. He collapsed into his makeshift bed, unconscious before his head even hit the pillow. His mind plunged into darkness, and when he opened his eyes, he was once again in that strange dreamscape.
Voldemort was waiting for him. The Dark Lord’s smirk deepened as he watched Harry approach, his voice soft and taunting. "I waited for you many nights, but you didn’t come," he said, his tone laced with dark amusement. "You’re resisting your fate quite stubbornly, aren’t you?"
"My fate is to end you," Harry spat back, anger rising up to replace the fear that threatened to choke him.
"Oh, but of course you will," Voldemort replied smoothly, stepping closer, their faces just inches apart. "You are ending me... but not in the way you think." He leaned in even further, so that Harry could feel the heat of his breath. And then, his lips brushed against Harry's in the faintest of touches.
The kiss was barely there, just a whisper of a connection, yet it sent shockwaves through Harry’s entire being. For a moment, he wanted to recoil, to shove the older wizard away and deny what was happening. But he couldn’t. The sensation was overwhelming, intoxicating, and before he could think to stop himself, he leaned in closer, letting the forbidden touch consume him.
His arms moved of their own accord, wrapping around Voldemort's neck as he pressed their lips together, deepening the kiss. Voldemort seized control immediately, his hands sliding to Harry’s waist, pulling their bodies together until there was no space left between them. He broke the kiss only to trail his lips along Harry’s neck, the younger wizard biting down on his bottom lip to stifle a gasp.
Noticing this, Voldemort gently pulled Harry’s lip free from the grip of his teeth, his voice a low murmur as he whispered, "Don’t hold back, darling. Let me hear you."
Harry's breath hitched as Voldemort's lips moved languidly against his neck, sending shivers coursing through his body. It felt so wrong, yet there was a maddening allure to the touch—something dark and primal that Harry couldn't fight. He let out a shaky breath, his hands fisting in Voldemort's robes, and the Dark Lord's chuckle reverberated against his skin, both mocking and pleased.
“That’s it,” Voldemort murmured, his voice a seductive purr. “Don’t resist what you already know is inevitable. You and I… we’re bound together. You can’t escape me, Harry.”
Harry’s mind struggled to push past the fog of desire that clouded his thoughts. He could hear a voice—his own voice, rational and desperate—telling him that this was a trick, that he needed to wake up and pull away. But his body betrayed him; it leaned into Voldemort’s touch, craving the warmth and intensity that had been absent from his life for so long. He felt utterly torn, as though there were two separate forces battling for control within him.
“You know this isn’t real,” Harry whispered, though his voice trembled with uncertainty. “You’re just… you’re just manipulating me.”
Voldemort’s lips curved into a cruel smile as he pulled back to look Harry in the eyes. “Is that what you think?” He caressed Harry’s cheek with a touch that was almost tender. “Or are you just afraid to admit what you want? That deep down, you crave what only I can offer… because I understand you, in a way no one else ever could.”
Harry wanted to deny it, to shout that it was a lie. But the truth was, there was a twisted logic in Voldemort’s words that struck a chord deep within him. It was true that his friends, as much as they tried to understand, couldn’t fully grasp the burden he carried. The prophecy, the expectations, the never-ending pressure to be the savior… it was suffocating. And here, in this forbidden dream, he found a dark sort of relief—an escape from the weight of it all.
“No,” Harry said, his voice barely audible. “I won’t give in to you.”
“You already have, in more ways than you realize,” Voldemort replied smoothly, his fingers tracing down Harry’s arm. “You wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t.”
The words hung in the air like a curse, and for a moment, Harry’s resolve wavered. He felt a surge of guilt and shame, as if he had already betrayed everything he fought for simply by indulging in this dream. He took a step back, forcing himself to pull away from Voldemort's intoxicating presence.
“I have to wake up,” he muttered, clenching his fists as if that would somehow free him from the thrall. “This is just a dream… It’s not real.”
Voldemort’s expression darkened, his eyes narrowing as his voice took on a more commanding tone. “Oh, but it will be,” he hissed, his hand shooting out to grab Harry’s wrist, yanking him close again. “I will find you, Harry. You can’t hide from me forever.”
With a jolt, Harry awoke, his heart pounding in his chest and his body drenched in sweat. It was still dark outside, and the inside of the tent felt cold and hollow compared to the feverish intensity of the dream. He ran a trembling hand through his hair, struggling to shake off the lingering sensations of Voldemort's touch.
He knew he needed to tell Hermione and Ron about the dreams, but a part of him hesitated. How could he explain this without sounding mad—or worse, without revealing the dark, dangerous allure that Voldemort seemed to hold over him? The idea of sharing even a glimpse of what he felt, of the temptation that lurked beneath his fears, was terrifying.
But he had to say something.
As morning came, he forced himself to speak up. The trio gathered around the dwindling campfire, and Harry recounted the dreams in vague terms—mentioning Voldemort’s pursuit and the strange, seductive words, but leaving out the more intimate details. He could see the worry in Hermione's eyes and the anger in Ron's furrowed brow.
“We can’t let this continue,” Hermione said, her voice firm. “You need to find a way to block him out, Harry. It’s too dangerous to let him invade your mind like this.”
“I know,” Harry replied, his voice low. “But it’s not just a matter of blocking him out. It’s like… part of me is drawn to him. I don’t understand it.”
“Then we have to find a way to destroy that connection,” Ron said fiercely, his fists clenching. “Before he can use it against you.”
Harry nodded, though a sense of dread gnawed at him. How could he sever a connection that felt as though it had rooted itself so deeply inside him? And what would it take to finally put an end to this dark bond that seemed to tighten around him with every passing night?
---
Another restless night fell upon the campsite. Harry’s eyes were heavy with exhaustion, yet his mind buzzed with restless energy. He had managed to avoid sleep for a couple of days, but his body couldn’t hold out any longer. As soon as his head hit the pillow, he was pulled back into that familiar darkness—a place that felt both dangerous and strangely comforting.
The scene shifted around him, and he found himself standing in an opulent room adorned with dark velvet curtains and flickering candles. It was not a place he recognized, yet the sensation that washed over him was unmistakably familiar. He wasn’t alone. A slow, chilling whisper reached his ears.
“You’ve returned, darling,” Voldemort’s voice drawled, smooth and taunting. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to stay away forever.”
Harry’s pulse quickened, but he clenched his fists, forcing himself to stand his ground. “This is just a dream,” he said, his voice shaky but resolute. “You don’t control me here.”
“Oh, don’t I?” Voldemort’s figure emerged from the shadows, his younger appearance sending a wave of discomfort through Harry. He looked much like he had in the Pensieve memories—dark hair framing a handsome face, his eyes glinting with that same dangerous charm. The only difference was the faint, sinister gleam in his gaze, and the way his smile curled into something far more predatory.
“You’re nothing but a shadow,” Harry continued, trying to force his feet to move, to step back, to wake himself up. “You’re not real.”
Voldemort’s laugh was deep and mocking. He took a step closer, closing the distance between them. “If I’m just a shadow, then why do you tremble so?” he whispered, his fingers grazing lightly over Harry’s cheek. “You can lie to yourself all you like, but we both know the truth.”
Harry felt the touch burn against his skin, searing into his very soul. He recoiled, desperately summoning the will to push the Dark Lord away. But when Voldemort’s hand slid around the back of his neck, pulling him closer, he felt that familiar pull—a dark magnetism that left him breathless and weak.
“You think you can resist me,” Voldemort murmured, his breath brushing against Harry’s ear, “but deep down, you’re already mine.”
“No,” Harry choked out, his voice barely more than a whisper. “I won’t give in.”
But even as he said the words, his body betrayed him. His eyes fluttered closed as Voldemort’s lips ghosted over his, not quite a kiss but close enough to send a jolt through him. His resolve wavered, slipping away as though it had never been there to begin with.
“Then why do you stay?” Voldemort’s voice was smooth, velvet draped over steel. “Why do you always come back to me?”
“I… I don’t,” Harry tried to say, but the words felt hollow. There was a part of him—buried deep and shrouded in shame—that knew it wasn’t true. He wanted to wake up, to escape this dark enchantment, but as Voldemort’s hands slid down his arms and his lips finally pressed against Harry’s, every thought of resistance seemed to fade away.
The kiss was slow and consuming, stealing the breath from his lungs and igniting a fire in his veins. Harry’s hands moved almost of their own accord, gripping Voldemort’s robes as though he were clinging to the only thing keeping him grounded. The rational part of his mind screamed at him to stop, to pull away, to remember who he was and who Voldemort was… but his body was driven by a different force altogether.
“You belong to me,” Voldemort whispered against his lips. “You’ve always belonged to me.”
Harry broke away just enough to gasp for air, his forehead resting against Voldemort’s as his chest heaved. “This isn’t… I’m not…” he stammered, but he couldn’t finish the sentence. What could he say? That he wasn’t giving in? The way his body melted into Voldemort’s touch made a mockery of that claim.
Voldemort’s fingers tangled in his hair, tilting his head back to meet his eyes. “Shh,” he soothed, though there was a dark gleam in his gaze. “There’s no need to fight anymore, Harry. Just surrender to what you feel.”
And in that moment, with the weight of Voldemort’s power pressing down on him, Harry did surrender. He let go of the conflict raging inside him and allowed himself to be swept away by the sensations that had haunted him for so long. He met Voldemort’s next kiss with a fervor that bordered on desperation, his hands roaming over the Dark Lord’s shoulders as if trying to anchor himself to the dark tide that threatened to consume him.
For a few stolen moments, it was easy to forget the world outside—the war, the prophecy, the lives depending on him. All that existed was the heat of Voldemort’s touch and the darkness that wrapped around him like a shroud. In that darkness, Harry felt free in a way he hadn’t for a long time.
But then, as if some hidden trigger had been pulled, the dream began to dissolve. The room faded, and Voldemort’s hold on him loosened. Harry’s eyes snapped open, and he found himself lying in the cold tent, the dawn light just beginning to creep through the canvas.
His heart raced, and his skin tingled with the fading touch of Voldemort’s hands. Shame flooded him as he sat up, rubbing his hands over his face in frustration. How had he let this happen again? He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to remember what was real and what was just a dream. Yet, the sensations—the kisses, the touch—had felt so real that he could hardly separate the fantasy from reality.
Harry knew he had to stay strong, to resist the dark allure that Voldemort wielded over him. But as he sat there, staring into the pale light of morning, he couldn’t shake the feeling that a part of him was already lost.
---
The night was colder than usual, and a bone-deep weariness weighed on Harry as he lay down in his tent. The locket hung heavy around his neck, its dark influence adding to the turmoil inside him. He knew he couldn’t stay awake much longer; the exhaustion was overwhelming, and the line between dreams and reality was already beginning to blur.
The moment his eyes closed, Harry was once again pulled into the darkness, but this time, the dream was different. He wasn’t in a strange room or a shadowy landscape. Instead, he found himself in a vast, moonlit field. The air was still, and the grass whispered around his ankles. And then, he sensed it—felt him.
Voldemort emerged from the darkness like a wraith, his figure solidifying into the young, handsome form that had haunted Harry’s dreams for weeks. There was a dangerous gleam in his eyes, but his voice was gentle, almost tender, as he approached. “I’ve waited for this, Harry,” he murmured. “So many nights, so many dreams… always just out of reach.”
Harry's heart thudded in his chest, a mix of anticipation and dread. He took a step back, but Voldemort closed the distance, his hands slipping around Harry’s waist and pulling him close. “You can’t run from me forever,” Voldemort whispered against his ear, his breath hot on Harry’s skin. “You know you don’t really want to.”
The rational part of Harry fought to break free, to pull away from the embrace that felt far too real. But the part of him that had surrendered before—the part that craved the forbidden comfort—gave in once more. He let himself be drawn closer, their bodies pressing together as Voldemort’s lips descended upon his.
The kiss was deeper this time, more desperate, as though Voldemort were claiming him with every breath. Harry found himself lost in the sensation, his fingers tangling in Voldemort’s hair as he opened himself up to the kiss, to the touch that burned through him. He could feel the magic thrumming between them, an electric current that pulsed stronger with every second, drawing them closer and closer.
Voldemort’s hands roamed over Harry’s body, his touch both possessive and caressing. “You belong to me,” he said against Harry’s lips, his voice a husky whisper. “In every way.”
As the words slipped from Voldemort’s mouth, something changed. The dream began to shift, and Harry could feel a deep connection forming—something more than just the magic that had always bound them. It felt as though Voldemort was reaching into his very soul, using the dark magic between them to tear down the final barriers in Harry’s mind.
The world around them started to blur, the moonlight growing brighter, harsher, until it was no longer moonlight at all but the faint glow of dawn. Voldemort's eyes bore into Harry’s as he whispered, “I can see you now… see where you are.”
A jolt of fear shot through Harry, and the dream shattered like glass. He sat up in his sleeping bag, heart pounding and his skin covered in a cold sweat. The air was still, but the magic left over from the dream seemed to hum around him, almost as if it had followed him into the waking world. He didn’t have time to think about the implications of what had just happened. He knew, deep in his gut, that something had changed—something dangerous.
Harry threw back the flap of his tent and ran into the cold morning air, not even bothering to put on a jacket. He burst into Hermione and Ron's tent, startling them both awake. “Get up,” he said breathlessly, his voice trembling. “We need to go. Now.”
“Harry, what—” Hermione started, but one look at his pale face stopped her mid-sentence. “What happened?”
“There’s no time,” Harry replied, grabbing the few belongings he could find and stuffing them into his bag. “He knows. Voldemort knows where we are.”
Ron bolted up, his eyes wide. “But… how?”
“I—I don’t know,” Harry stammered, his hands shaking as he packed. “But he was in my dream again. It wasn’t like before. It was different. It was… real. He saw where we were.”
Hermione and Ron scrambled to gather their things, their movements hurried and panicked. “Harry,” Hermione said as she threw a pan into her bag, “we need to get as far away from here as possible. If he really knows, he’ll be coming any minute.”
Harry nodded, already running through the wards they'd set up. The enchantments they’d used to hide themselves were strong, but they would mean nothing if Voldemort could pinpoint their exact location. He glanced back at the clearing, a heavy feeling of dread sinking in as the final remnants of his last dream echoed in his mind—Voldemort’s touch, his voice, and that dark promise.
As they made their way into the dense forest, Harry couldn’t help but wonder if he’d just led his friends into a trap… or if the trap had already been sprung, and they were simply running into Voldemort’s arms.
The thought sent a shiver down his spine, and he quickened his pace, not daring to look back.
---
The forest seemed endless as they ran, Harry leading the way with his wand at the ready, his breath ragged in the chilly air. Ron and Hermione followed close behind, their eyes darting around for any sign of pursuit. The atmosphere felt too quiet, too tense, as though the world itself was holding its breath. Harry's instincts screamed at him that they weren't alone—that any moment, Voldemort’s forces would descend upon them.
And then it happened.
A sudden explosion of magic rocked the ground, throwing them all off balance. Harry turned just in time to see dark figures emerging from the trees—Death Eaters, wands raised and spells flying. He felt the air around him thicken with magic, the forest erupting into chaos. “Run!” he shouted, raising his wand and casting a protective shield to buy his friends a few precious seconds.
“Harry, no!” Hermione cried out as she grabbed Ron's arm, pulling him along. “We’re not leaving you!”
But Harry was already moving away from them, drawing the Death Eaters’ attention. “Go!” he yelled again, his voice laced with desperation. “I'll hold them off! Just get out of here!”
He saw Ron and Hermione hesitate for the briefest moment, and then they were gone, disappearing into the thick undergrowth. Harry turned back to face the encroaching darkness, firing off hexes and curses, his movements frantic as he tried to buy his friends as much time as possible. But even as he fought, he knew it was a losing battle. There were too many of them.
A jet of red light hit him squarely in the chest, and his vision swam as the world went dark.
---
When Harry came to, his entire body felt heavy, weighed down as though by some unseen force. He was lying on a cold, hard floor in a dimly lit room. As his senses returned, he recognized the unmistakable feel of dark magic saturating the air around him. He tried to move, but his limbs barely responded, as if every muscle had turned to lead.
Then he heard it—a low, amused chuckle that sent a shiver down his spine.
“So, you’re finally awake,” came a voice that was all too familiar. It was smooth, deceptively gentle, and laced with a cruel edge. Harry's breath hitched as he turned his head and saw Voldemort standing over him, his expression one of satisfaction and something far darker. “Welcome, Harry. I've been waiting for you.”
Harry’s heart raced, but not entirely out of fear. The intensity in Voldemort’s gaze was different from the hatred he’d seen before. There was a possessive glint in those eyes, a hunger that seemed to reach inside him and claim something he hadn’t even realized he’d offered. He tried to sit up, his body trembling with the effort. “Where… where am I?”
Voldemort crouched beside him, his hand reaching out to brush a strand of hair away from Harry’s face. “You’re exactly where you need to be,” he murmured, his voice a low, intimate rumble. “No more running. No more hiding. It’s just you and me now, Harry.”
Harry’s breath came in shallow bursts as Voldemort’s hand trailed down his cheek, the touch searing against his skin. He knew he should resist, fight back, scream for help—anything to oppose the man who had caused so much pain and suffering. But something inside him stilled, his body responding to Voldemort’s touch with a shudder that had nothing to do with fear.
“Why…?” Harry whispered, his voice trembling as much as his body. “Why do this?”
Voldemort’s lips curled into a dark smile. “Because you’re mine, Harry,” he said softly, his hand sliding down to grip Harry’s chin, forcing him to look into those cold, red eyes. “You’ve always been mine. Even when you didn’t know it.”
There was a moment of stillness, a charged silence that seemed to stretch on forever. Then, before Harry could say anything else, Voldemort closed the distance between them, his lips capturing Harry’s in a kiss that was both demanding and possessive. Harry's mind screamed at him to pull away, to fight back, but his body betrayed him, responding to the kiss with a desperate fervor. He was tired—so tired of resisting, of being strong for everyone else. And here, in this moment, it was so easy to surrender.
The kiss deepened, and Harry found himself clinging to Voldemort, his hands grasping at the dark robes as though they were the only solid thing in the world. He was dimly aware of being pulled closer, of Voldemort’s hands roaming over his body, as though claiming every inch of him. There was an intensity in Voldemort’s touch that spoke of both possession and need—a need that echoed somewhere deep within Harry himself.
“You won’t escape me again,” Voldemort whispered against his lips, his breath hot and his voice laced with dark promise. “I’ll have all of you… every part.”
Harry didn’t reply, couldn’t reply. The words tangled in his throat as Voldemort’s hands wandered lower, and any coherent thought was lost to the haze of conflicting emotions that consumed him. All he could do was hold on as the darkness closed in around them, pulling him deeper into the abyss.
The air between them grew impossibly thick as Voldemort's lips moved against Harry’s with an intensity that left him breathless. Every touch, every brush of fingers felt like it was igniting a fire under his skin. Harry’s heart pounded in his chest, his emotions swirling in a chaotic mix of fear, longing, and an unbidden sense of surrender.
Voldemort’s hand slid around Harry's waist, pulling him closer until there was no space left between their bodies. “You’ve fought for so long,” he whispered against Harry’s mouth, his voice soft and coaxing, yet underlined with possessive hunger. “But we both know… you belong here.” His lips traveled down to Harry’s jaw, trailing heated kisses down his neck, sending shivers across his skin.
Harry gasped, his mind a jumble of thoughts and sensations as Voldemort’s hands roamed over his body, exploring, claiming. There was a dark satisfaction in the way the Dark Lord touched him, as though he had finally gotten what he had always wanted, and was reveling in the moment.
Harry's own hands hesitated, then found their way to Voldemort’s shoulders, clutching at the fabric of his robes as though to anchor himself. The world outside the room seemed to blur into irrelevance, the only reality that mattered now was here—Voldemort’s touch, his whispered words, the way he seemed to envelop every sense, every thought.
“I… I…” Harry tried to speak, but his voice failed him as Voldemort’s lips moved lower, grazing his collarbone. The sensations were overwhelming, tugging at the edges of his self-control.
“Shh…” Voldemort’s breath was hot against his skin, his hands gliding to the hem of Harry’s shirt, fingers brushing teasingly against his skin. “Don’t think, Harry… just feel.”
Harry’s breathing grew ragged, and he found himself leaning into the touch, drawn in by a force that felt almost magnetic. He could feel the pull of that deeper connection between them, like a thread binding their fates together. When Voldemort's hands slid further up under his shirt, a wave of anticipation surged through him. The last traces of resistance crumbled as he let his eyes flutter closed, surrendering to the darkness that beckoned him.
The world beyond the room faded away entirely, leaving only the warmth of their shared breath, the heat between their bodies, and the unspoken promise lingering in the air.
As Harry leaned back, giving in to the sensations swirling around him, he felt a rush of vulnerability mixed with exhilaration. Voldemort’s hands moved expertly, pushing Harry’s shirt up and over his head, exposing his skin to the cool air, which contrasted sharply with the heat radiating between them.
“Beautiful,” Voldemort murmured, his eyes dark with desire as they roamed over Harry's form. There was a possessiveness in his gaze that sent a thrill through Harry, making his heart race faster. The way Voldemort looked at him felt almost reverent, as if he were a treasure that had finally been uncovered.
With an almost desperate urgency, Voldemort’s fingers found the clasp of Harry’s belt, deftly undoing it before his hands slid down to the waistband of his trousers. The thrill of anticipation coursed through Harry as he watched the Dark Lord’s movements, each deliberate motion igniting a fire within him.
“Let me,” Voldemort whispered, his voice low and hypnotic. He slowly pulled down Harry’s trousers, exposing him further. The sensations intensified, sending waves of warmth flooding through Harry’s body, his breath hitching as he felt the cool air against his exposed skin.
Voldemort’s fingers danced over Harry’s thighs, teasingly light at first, but soon grew more insistent. The Dark Lord leaned closer, his lips brushing against Harry’s neck, whispering sweet, wicked promises that made Harry’s pulse race. “You’re mine,” he declared, each word dripping with dark possession.
Harry gasped, feeling the weight of those words settle into his very core, the truth of them resonating deep within him. The thrill of vulnerability wrapped around him like a silken thread, binding him to Voldemort in ways he had never imagined.
As their bodies intertwined, clothing became a distant memory, forgotten in the haze of passion and longing. Harry surrendered completely, letting go of any lingering doubts or fears. In this moment, nothing else mattered but the intoxicating connection between them—their bodies, their hearts, and the tangled fate that drew them together.
As Voldemort’s lips traveled down Harry’s chest, trailing soft kisses along his skin, a shiver ran through Harry’s body. The sensations were electric, igniting every nerve ending. He gasped at the contact, his mind swirling in a haze of desire and confusion, the boundaries of his thoughts blurring as he focused solely on the Dark Lord’s touch.
Voldemort paused, his eyes glinting with mischief and something deeper, something that felt almost affectionate. “You like this, don’t you?” he asked, his voice low and teasing as he pressed his body against Harry’s, their skin sliding together, igniting a fire that Harry couldn't resist.
“I… I shouldn’t…” Harry stammered, but even as he spoke, he could feel himself leaning into the touch, craving more. It was as if Voldemort’s presence wrapped around him, shielding him from the chaos of the outside world, and all that remained was the intoxicating heat between them.
“Why deny what you truly want?” Voldemort murmured, his breath hot against Harry’s ear. The dark allure of his words wrapped around Harry, drawing him further into the depths of temptation. “You can’t hide from yourself forever, Harry. Embrace it.”
Harry's heart raced, and despite the remnants of doubt swirling in his mind, he felt the pull of Voldemort’s seduction. The way the Dark Lord’s fingers traced along his sides, teasing and exploring, made it increasingly difficult to think. Every kiss ignited a fire that spread through him, pushing aside the thoughts of consequences and guilt.
“Let go,” Voldemort urged, his voice smooth as silk, brushing against Harry’s lips as he spoke. “Let me take you. You will find a pleasure here that you’ve never known before.”
With that, he captured Harry’s lips again, this time with a fervor that left no room for hesitation. Harry responded instinctively, kissing back with a fervor that surprised him, feeling every barrier dissolve under the weight of their connection. Voldemort’s hands roamed over Harry’s body, leaving trails of fire in their wake as they explored every inch, claiming him with each touch.
As their bodies pressed together, the world faded into insignificance, leaving only the heat of their skin and the electric energy that pulsed between them. Harry lost himself in the moment, allowing Voldemort’s intensity to consume him, pushing away every thought that dared to intrude.
But as the connection deepened, Harry’s mind flickered with the reality of their circumstances—the danger, the darkness, the war that loomed outside. It was fleeting, though, overshadowed by the overwhelming sensations that flooded through him. The pleasure of Voldemort’s touch eclipsed everything else.
In that moment, as they melted together, Harry felt the line between them blur. He was no longer just the Boy Who Lived, the Chosen One—he was simply Harry, vulnerable and open, swept away in the current of desire. The only truth that mattered was the pull of their connection, a bond that transcended everything they were meant to be.
As they moved together, every touch igniting a spark, Harry’s breaths quickened, his body arching against Voldemort’s as he surrendered completely to the moment.
And in that darkened room, the barriers that had once held them apart began to crumble, leaving only the raw, unfiltered connection of two souls intertwined in a dance of longing and fate.
---
As the sun began to rise, Harry stirred from a restless sleep. The remnants of the night before lingered in his mind—intense and vivid memories of his surrender to Voldemort's seductive embrace. He blinked against the dim light filtering through the heavy curtains of the room, feeling a blend of confusion and clarity. The thrill of their connection coursed through him, and he couldn’t deny the way it made him feel alive, yet deep down, a chill ran through him.
Harry sat up slowly, the sheets slipping away to reveal his bare skin, a stark reminder of the boundaries he had crossed. The absence of Voldemort beside him sent a wave of unexpected disappointment through his chest. In that moment, he couldn't decide if he missed the Dark Lord or the intense feelings that had surged between them.
Rising from the bed, he glanced around the unfamiliar room. It was adorned with dark wood and luxurious furnishings that contrasted sharply with the chaos outside. This was Voldemort’s domain—a place of power and secrecy. The weight of what had transpired pressed heavily on him, but he also felt a flicker of exhilaration at the thought of the connection he had forged with the man who had long been his enemy.
He moved quietly through the room, trying to gather his thoughts. He was no longer just Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived. He was entwined with something far darker, something that both terrified and fascinated him. As he dressed, the echoes of their encounter pulsed in his veins, urging him to explore the feelings he had only just begun to comprehend.
When he finally stepped out into the dimly lit corridor, Harry’s heart raced. He felt exposed yet empowered, as if the very air around him crackled with potential. As he made his way through the twisted hallways of Voldemort’s lair, he knew he was walking a dangerous path.
He couldn’t shake the feeling that Voldemort would find him soon, that their connection would draw him back into the Dark Lord’s orbit. Just as he arrived at the main chamber, he sensed a presence lurking in the shadows.
“Harry,” a familiar voice echoed, and he turned to see Voldemort standing there, his figure illuminated by a faint glow. The sight of him sent a thrill down Harry’s spine, a mixture of fear and anticipation.
“Don’t try to avoid me,” Voldemort said, a hint of amusement in his tone. “I’ve been waiting for you, my dear Harry. We have much to discuss.”
Before Harry could respond, Voldemort stepped closer, closing the distance between them. Harry’s breath caught in his throat as he felt the pull of their bond, the dark connection that both frightened and exhilarated him.
“Your resistance is futile,” Voldemort continued, his voice smooth and enticing. “You are mine now, and you will come to understand that there is no escaping your fate.”
Harry’s heart raced, torn between the desire to fight back and the longing to surrender completely. “I won’t let you win,” he managed to say, though his voice wavered.
“Oh, but you already have,” Voldemort replied, his lips curling into a predatory smile. “Last night, you willingly chose to embrace what we have. You cannot deny the attraction that binds us.”
The heat between them intensified, and Harry felt his resolve slipping. The memories of their shared moments played in his mind—moments of passion that ignited something deep within him. He knew that he should resist, but the seductive lure of Voldemort was nearly impossible to ignore.
“I’ll fight you,” Harry insisted, though his voice lacked conviction.
Voldemort chuckled softly, his eyes glinting with dark amusement. “Then let us begin, shall we? You will come to see that yielding to me is not a defeat, but rather a path to true power.”
As the tension thickened in the air, Harry felt a thrill of dread and excitement. There was no escaping this fate. He was caught in Voldemort’s web, and the only thing left to do was surrender to the dark allure that had ensnared him so completely.