What's 𝒘𝒓𝒐𝒏𝒈 with me?

Harry thinks he is suffering from a disease that he will find out is called "Love".
A contagious unhealthy love that he feels not his own but that spreads to his very core through his sickening dreams.
Unfortunately for him, he is forced to fall for a monster that could only have feelings towards himself. Oh, but wait...

⊱•••• ϟ ••••⊰

"I must be ill"
Since Voldemort's resurrection Harry had been dreaming about him every single night.
The Dark Lord. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Voldemort. Tom Riddle.
The image of his imposing and powerful figure in the graveyard would be forever engraved in his memory until his last breath.
The way he seamed to float like black smoke, intoxicating his thoughts, his body, his mind, his h...

"No"

Unconsciously he had moved his hand to his cheek, the one that Voldemort had caressed so gently with his long ice-cold fingers. He still could remember how strange it had felt, how frustrating it was to miss that touch, how "right" it had been.

"Stop"

His chest often ached, his blood rushed hot making him sweat, pulse racing and heart beating fast when hearing his name. He was surely sick.
At first Harry had tried to convince himself that these odd baffling symptoms were all due to the traumatic experience he had lived. Watching Cedric die in front of him, being used for a horrifying ritual and contemplating how his blood helped resurrect the devil itself, who rose from the bowels of hell through a cauldron truly had to have affected him somehow.
But the summer passed and he still couldn't stop thinking about this monster of a man.
The bewitching inhuman wizard that once had also mesmerized a 12 year old Harry in his younger form was twisting his mind and feelings, thought after thought, dream after dream.
He was messing him up.
For the fist time in his young life he feared to go back to Hogwarts. He was terrified to show the impact Lord Voldemort could had made on him. He was scared.
Without noticing his imperceptible slow approach, the Dark Lord had succeeded in sneaking into his mind and slither through his unprotected unconquered heart. He let the beast in, and now...

"He must have done something to me"

Maybe he should tell Dumbledore, but the headmaster was trying his best to avoid him. Furthermore, the Daily Prophet had made a very good job to discredit his story.
The loneliness was taking its toll on him, lowering his gard even more to the sure delight of his tormentor.
He was so tired, so forsaken, so misunderstood.
Lord Voldemort was his every constant day and night, he was winning the game he had forced Harry to play, toying with his insecurities and touch starved state, whispering praises in his ear and then making him lose his balance with violent brutal scenarios were pain was starting to carry a shamefully frightening after taste.
He hated to admit that he was starting to crave it, to wish for a more real thing, unconsciously praying for Lord Voldemort to appear outside of his dreams and put and end to his madness.

"I need to find a remedy"

He had been unable to stop his friends from noticing his damaged state.
But he knew they couldn't help him this time. He could never tell them what was happening to him, how badly he was aching for T... "Don't say his name"

The symptoms of his affliction worsened every time he closed his emerald green eyes. Those that were so embarrassingly admired at night or through the mirrors he tried to avoid now.
The dreams were getting more intense, the heat and sweat uncontrollable and difficult to hide, the arousal no longer undeniable. The weigh of his secret "disease" was breaking him.

"I'm losing it"

It was getting harder to keep his longing a secret, to train the students against the ominous silent threat he so much was attracted to, to remind himself that he was supposed to be the key in the inminent war, a golden chess piece that would stop the rising enemy.
However, those annoyingly pleasant butterflies he felt whenever the image of the Dark wizard crossed his unprotected mind weren't helping, and struggled to keep a poker face in front of the Order and his friends.

And finally the day arrived. The vision of Sirius being tortured by his cruel nemesis had nearly made him cry. A feeling of painful betrayal clouding his common sense, preventing him to see the final move Voldemort had been waiting to use to win their game and finally collect his prize.
The gilt was unbearable.
Harry needed to save his godfather, he had to do it himself, there was no other option available in his manipulated mind, his savior complex going against him one last time.

He would never forgive himself if his sickening altered state stopped him from saving his loved ones. He would forever blame himself if HE was the reason Voldemort tortured Sirius to death and he didn't rush to help him on time.

"I have to do it"

But the terrorized boy who lived was dreading the encounter with the monstrous wizard. He didn't know how he would react. He feared he'd loose control, that he would finally completely break and give in to his excruciatingly taunting desires. That he now yes, would very willingly bow and beg.
Dumbledore had been right after all, "It does not do to dwell on dreams..." And so he confirmed, when arriving at the dark aisle his mind had very conveniently provided him to find. And see nothing, no sou...

"𝑶𝒉 𝑯𝒂𝒓𝒓𝒚, 𝒎𝒚 𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒊𝒐𝒖𝒔𝒔𝒔𝒔"

He heard an amused high laugh too real and too close for his comfort. The delight in the voice coursing through Harry's trembling body, now paralized by fear. He didn't dare breath, his heartbeats deafening. He would never know if it was his Gryffindor courage or the neediness pull that made him turn around to face at last the nightmare itself.

"𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒈𝒂𝒎𝒆 𝒊𝒔 𝒇𝒊𝒏𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒚 𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒍𝒆 𝒐𝒏𝒆."

Voldemort triumphantly grinned to the petrified boy. He was holding something round and shinny in his hand, showing it briefly to his 'prophesied' soulmate. Harry just saw the orb pass before getting caught by the hungry red gaze fixed on him. A gloating Voldemort approached his horcrux with teasing steps, his wolfish smile enlarging as if being fed by every trimmed centimeter between the two wizards. And the less distance there was, the more Harry's resistance cracked. So when the boy finally felt the dark wizard's heat, his breath tingling his skin and a hand cupping his cheek, the Boy Who Lived crumbled and leaned to that dreamed touch with a long holded moan.

"𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝒅𝒐𝒏'𝒕 𝒇𝒓𝒆𝒕, 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝑰 𝒂𝒎 𝒕𝒐 𝒄𝒐𝒍𝒍𝒆𝒄𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖, 𝒎𝒚 𝒑𝒓𝒊𝒛𝒆... "

⚡ What's wrong with me? ⚡

The end (?)