Speaking in Tongues

Harry couldn’t look away.

He tried to close his eyes—to give himself a momentary reprieve from a sight that should have repulsed him.

But he could not.

The man before him was as entrancing as he was horrifying—the jarring image trapping his gaze as completely as the restraints keeping his arms and legs firmly in place. It consumed him—denied him escape even as he willed himself to twist his own emerald gaze away, to no avail.

This man’s eyes were unshakeable.

The dark eyes ensnaring his own were like glittering gems, obsidian and onyx melting into the rich pools in such a fashion that Harry could not discern where the man’s pupil began and where it ended. They were so dark that Harry felt like he was falling into pools of black, the emptiness whispering promises of death in their depths.

It was an unfathomable shadow and it reminded Harry of the unseeing eyes of the victims this monster had slain. Of eyes that would never light up with joy or anger, of eyes that would never look at a loved one or take in the richness of the world around them.

It was horrifying as it was beautiful.

Harry felt like he was drowning, his breath coming in weakly as if he were trying to take in water rather than the cold air pressing against his skin. His chest tightened with his strain to let in the oxygen he needed, his arms jerking and shuffling within his restraints as he tried to move away from the predatory gaze that held him prisoner.

There was a whisper of fear at the back of his head beckoning him to turn away, but Harry could abide it. He knew it was pointless; he was like a butterfly pinned beneath the cruel hands of a child.

His struggling would get him nowhere, though trying to stop himself from struggling was no easy feat. Not when death was staring at him so curiously.

It was only after minutes of pointless fighting that Harry finally stopped, the burn of his wrists pulling against the coarse ropes, a vivid reminder of how furiously he had fought when he had first awoke in the dark room.

Harry felt stiff, his limbs boneless and pliant despite the rapid beating of his heart, its thrumming insisting and unstoppable. With adrenaline rushing through him, Harry released another strangled breath in a pitiful attempt to calm himself, and he almost laughed then, the notion of possibly relaxing ridiculous considering the circumstances. It would certainly be a miracle if he managed to do that when he was literally in the presence of a bloody psychopath.

The man cocked his head, and Harry jerked back, unwittingly pulling against the restraints once more despite the mantra in his head urging him to relax.

Calm down, Harry. This is what he wants. Don’t show fear.

Harry’s lips quivered, trembling so intensely with his nerves that he had to bite on the offending appendage to stop the involuntary motions. Harry was afraid, but he knew that the man lived for the fear of his victims. The monster thrived off the unease and the disquiet he created before killing his unfortunate quarry. Harry could not let the man know that he was frightened, that he was so scared that he could hardly take a breath without his lungs protesting.

The monster would only get off on Harry’s show of weakness.

And so Harry, once more, worked to calm his breathing and will his heart to slow.

Harry may have been taken, just as the others before him had, but Harry could not give the bastard the satisfaction of seeing his fear. Of course, anyone in Harry’s position would be afraid. And anyone that knew him would know that this was possibly the most scared Harry had ever been in his life despite the atrocities he had seen throughout his time on the police force.

But Harry would not buckle under the noxious feeling churning in his belly, the memories of the horrific crime scenes reminding him again of this monster’s penchant for cruelty.

“Are you afraid?” Riddle whispered loud enough for Harry to hear, the sound chafing at Harry’s mental defenses.

Harry counted to ten, shoving the unease that the velvety voice inspired in him aside, before deciding right then that he was simply not going to respond. The bastard wanted an answer? Harry would simply clamp up, then. He wasn’t going to lie down and take the beating—even if he was strapped up tight and unable to escape from his, most assuredly, imminent death.

Harry wouldn’t play this game. Harry knew what the man’s intentions were gauging from the glimmer in the man’s eyes.

A sadist lulled you into comfort before tearing you away from the little stability you’d gained, or simply presented you with the nauseating scenario just to evoke some sort of reaction. Harry had seen them all—studied enough in his time on the force to understand that this was how they worked.

And this man had it down to a science. Practically textbook, if Harry was being honest.

All the victims before him had been drained entirely of blood. The exsanguination sign enough that this man was going to be dangerous and difficult to catch, especially when there were never any prints or equipment to identify just how the men and women were drained.

Harry remembered with great detail the first of a series of bodies. She was a young girl of thirteen with black ringlets framing her petite head. She had been so small that it was a miracle in and of itself that anyone could have found her lying out in the forest right at the outskirts of town. It was the ideal spot for teenagers to smoke pot; the perfect venue to hide away from cops. A place, Harry himself had visited when he was a young boy living in Little Hangleton.

So it was surprising when the girl had been found, her body laid out on the soft grass. Harry could still see the girl’s sightless dark eyes staring out above her, the seemingly peaceful expression haunting his dreams for days.

Harry almost wished for the simple days when the town had assumed the death of Myrtle Warren was the most tragic thing to come to Little Hangleton. Because nothing could have prepared anyone for what came after finding poor Mrytle.

A few weeks after they had found the girl, another body turned up. And another. And then another. All distinctly different from the rather placid and tranquil look to the little girl.

At first, Harry’s department had thought them to be different killers. Because surely, Mrytle’s killer, although a monster in his own right for taking the life of a young girl, could not have been the one that had slain the others.

But there was no mistaking the fact that the people that came after were also drained entirely of blood, just as Mrytle had. It was the common thread connecting them all, but their bodies. Harry shivered, recalling his own horror and disgust at the horrid state of the men and women that followed after Myrtle.

Every single victim thereafter had been tortured horrifically. Their limbs bent in angles no person could naturally bend, their jaws wide and their tongues sometimes missing from their mouths. Their bodies twisted while alive. Limbs were pulled apart, seemingly torn off by some strong force. Teeth were ripped from gums. Intestines were laid out on the fresh grass like a sacrifice for an unknown god.

And that was only the tip of the iceberg. The beginning of a series of tragedies.

Harry found more and saw more. Each death that followed worse than the last. It made sifting through the evidence in his office back at the station a nightmare—the thought that there was someone in their town capable of something like this completely horrifying.

Harry did not believe in monsters, but with each passing day, he felt this belief waiver; his conviction further and further eroded with each body uncovered and each family he had to give the sad news to.

So Harry had plenty of reason to be afraid. He was in the belly of the beast, the killer that had been plaguing the town literally inches from his own sitting form. Harry knew what this monster was capable of, perhaps better than anyone else. He had dedicated hours, days, and weeks on unmasking this creature, but still, he fought down the nauseous fear urging him to beg for his life.

The killer would grant him no mercy. His words would only wet the man’s appetite, and Harry knew, could feel it within his bones, that the moment he opened his mouth to plead for mercy, that his suffering would be assured.

Though, pain was inevitable regardless of what he said.

Harry had unmasked the monster—he had come closer than anyone the force had ever come before. Harry had discovered the story the man had wanted to depict through the bodies, analyzed the messages he would carve into their skin.

The scales over Harry’s eyes fell away with each body, the mystery unwinding. Harry had thought that the killer had simply gotten sloppy, that he was losing control just as many killers often did. But the game the monster was playing was one Harry had failed to see—one that dragged him deeper into the abyss until all Harry could dream of was of the man’s hands pressing against his neck and strangling his breaths.

And of future victims, potential victims, staring emptily back at him.

Harry should have been more cognizant, should have been more self-aware. He should have noted that the messages pieced together on the bones of the dead was not a cry for attention for the entire police force, as it often was.

But for Harry himself. The attention the killer had wanted was his.

And the trail?

One left only for Harry to see.

Harry did not know how the man had noticed him. He was a simple detective, a single man that lived on his own with the stray owl he took care of. Harry was not the most sociable, his own unpleasant childhood making his capacity for trust rather limited.

Harry had two friends despite the large size of the town and his affable personality. He was just Harry, an orphaned boy that only wanted to wield justice in the palm of his hand while living a relatively peaceful life. It wasn’t much, and now, as he gazed at the handsome man in front of him, Harry wondered if that had been what caught the killer’s eyes in the first place.

This killer was Harry’s complete opposite.

Everyone knew who this man was.

Thomas Marvolo Riddle was a prominent man. A beautiful, yet mysterious figure, that hung around other slimey politicians in their town. No one quite knew what had brought him to Little Hangleton in the first place—of the reason why he had decided to take residence in the decrepit manor right over the hill overhanging the town.

Many had believed it was for his own privacy, to keep away from the chaotic life of living in London.

But now, Harry knew better.

The Riddle manor was distant enough that no one would ever hear the screams of victims. It was the ideal place for a murder.

And of course, now, it made sense why Riddle even got involved with the police department in the first place. Harry should never have allowed the man to oversee their progress on the case; he should have never sought the beast out himself for more financial support on searching for the monster killing innocent people in the town.

It was a mistake that would now cost Harry his life. A simple gesture that had put Harry on the radar and had put Riddle right off the trail of suspects, even.

Because just who would suspect Riddle? A man that was hardly ever in town?

Harry groaned, ripped from his thoughts when Riddle suddenly seized Harry by his hair, the pressure of the man’s fingers digging painfully into his scalp making him wince.

It was a caress compared to what would come later, Harry was sure. This was nothing. But it still smarted—still stung despite everything within Harry urging him to silence his own pained sounds.

“Where are your manners, Harry? I asked you a simple question,” Riddle purred, his eyes flashing brilliantly beneath artificial light. It cast the man in an almost inhuman glow, the white light making his skin paler than what Harry had remembered it being the few times they had spoken. It reminded Harry faintly of demons—of what monsters hidden within the shadows of the night looked like right before they came to steal the souls of innocents away.

Harry wondered if that was what this man was. A monster that feasted on the suffering of others, with its jaw poised over a person’s neck before shoving jagged teeth into their skin.

Harry smiled sardonically at the trajectory of his thoughts, unable to silence the whispers in the back of his head promising a painful death. His own imagination was, in all fairness, proving to be more frightening than the actual threat in front of him—as if Harry needed any more reminders of how seriously fucked he was.

Harry winced when Riddle tightened his grip, the man’s lip twitching imperceptibly at being ignored once more.

“Piss off,” Harry rasped, silencing the screaming that started up in the back of his head after his comment. It was stupid to incite the beast, but there was something satisfying about watching the man’s face twist into one of confusion.

The bastard expected fear. Harry would give him the exact opposite.

Even if he was going to die.

It was a morbid reality, but really, how much worse could the situation get? Harry had seen what the monster did to people, and although the thought of torture did make his heart beat quicker than it was already, what could Harry really do?

Harry had done as much as he could to uncover the beast. He had gathered plenty of evidence at his cottage, had made recordings of his own thoughts on the matter and even explained in great detail how to piece the puzzle together.

Perhaps the department would find it and use it to catch this man. Perhaps they would fail to find it and Harry would have died for nothing. There was really no way for Harry to know which one it would be, but he had to hope that Ron would see it. Harry never made tapes of anything—he never left evidence just sitting on his kitchen table.

It was the only thing keeping him going. The only thing, aside from his pride, willing him to defy Riddle.

Harry may die, but Harry would make sure Riddle would never be able to kill again.

And then, almost as if in response to Harry’s own thoughts, Riddle’s handsome face broke into a grin, the expression foreign and strange as Harry tried to make sense of it. It was all edges—a perfectly sharpened blade hoisted above a frail and quivering throat. His teeth looked too sharp and long, more like fangs than actual human teeth. It reminded Harry easily of that of a shark.

“You’re not going to beg for your life.” Riddle stated, a his grin widening when Harry failed to answer, alarm and apprehension slicing through Harry’s mind in response to Riddle’s peculiar expression.

Harry had seen the man smile numerous times on television, had seen him grin when speaking to the mayor and other officials at various town hall meetings, but there was something about that smile that had Harry tensing up in his restraints. The voice in the back of his mind a shout now as Harry tried to process just what was happening.

Was it the man’s tone? Harry thought as he renewed his struggles, watching how Riddle leaned in closer to his own face. Was it the look in his eyes? Harry gasped when something flashed in the man’s eyes, malicious glee swirling within the black.

It didn’t matter that Harry was resigned to die. The closing space between their faces forced all the air from Harry’s lungs.

Harry watched helplessly as his own face was reflected in the man’s eyes, his own wide green eyes and parted mouth clear as day in the shadows.

It was unnerving, Harry’s instincts crying for him to move away, but there was nowhere for Harry to go. He was at Riddle’s mercy, tied and helpless, unable to stop the killer from from doing what he had done to poor victims that had come before him.

Riddle stopped just centimeters from Harry’s own face, his warm breath fanning across Harry’s lips. It made Harry’s skin burn and itch, the sensation drawing a repulsed shiver up his spine when Riddle’s eyes stared intensely into Harry’s own with that admittedly creepy grin still on his handsome face.

And then, there was silence.

The man did not speak, his hand caught between the soft hair on Harry’s head.

It was a silence that weighed heavily in Harry’s gut, an absence of sound that threatened to break down the little composure he had managed to scrape up.

But it just did not make any bloody sense!

Harry expected to be screaming with pain, his eyes gouged out after the man slipped his fingers inside his sockets. Harry was prepared for death, but not for this...whatever it was that Riddle was doing. Harry had resigned himself to being tortured before meeting a gruesome death.

But eaten away by the man’s gaze? That was not what Harry anticipated at all.

“Why haven’t you killed me yet?” Harry demanded,  unnerved by the intensity of the man’s stare and his silence. Harry couldn’t stand it, his fingers twisting within his bindings as he tried to get a hold of himself. But there was no helping it. Harry needed him to do something, to say something at least. It felt like the man was eating him alive with just his gaze, like his flesh was being ripped straight from his bones.

Harry hated this.

But Riddle did not acknowledge the question, the fingers in Harry’s hair threading more tightly against his scalp. Harry could only swallow, ignoring the way his grip stung.

This was unplanned. Unscripted. Entirely out of character. Harry was supposed to be dying.

“You and I both know that I am not going to kill you, Harry,” Riddle finally stated, suddenly jerking Harry’s head up and against the headboard Harry was leaning against. Harry could no longer see Riddle’s face, his own head forced back until he could only see the tiled ceiling above their heads.

Harry squirmed against his bindings—the vulnerability of the position forcing him to act. This was what Harry had intended to provoke, but he could not stop himself from swallowing nervously when Riddle leaned in, his breath warm against the trembling flesh of his neck.

Harry twitched, the numbness giving way to panic when he felt something wet trail against his throat—hot and slick as it danced over his bobbing adam’s apple and slid to a sensitive point right where his shoulder and neck met.

Was that his tongue? Harry was horrified.

“W-what are you doing?” Harry cursed himself for stuttering, nausea twisting his stomach into pretzels when Riddle laughed into his skin-—the chuckle vibrating so intensely that Harry could have sworn he felt it rush up his spine.

Harry was prepared for the worst, his thoughts shooting a mile a minute with questions of what his fate would be. Death, that was a given. But the in-between was what made his fingers twitch and his toes curl with apprehension.

Was the man going to torture him, then? Break him to tiny pieces before finally giving Harry the sweet mercy of death?

Harry expected to be tortured. He knew that was his fate from the moment the man had broken into his home and taken him while he was out cold—drugged within an inch of his life. But Riddle was not supposed to press his teeth deep into his skin, his tongue smoothing across the carotid artery at his neck.

No. That was not what Harry had accounted for.

“Poor Detective Potter, you have no idea what it was that you were running after,” Riddle murmured into the skin, taking the flesh between his teeth and sucking it in harshly; so hard that Harry was sure that it would bruise. Harry twisted and writhed, suddenly aware that Riddle had leaned further into him, his body now pressed so intimately into his own that there was no space between Harry’s trembling stomach and Riddle’s own.

There was no place for Harry to move, his back pressed into the headboard, his legs tied down to the wooden posts of the bed, and his wrists tied down to the wooden headboard with his arms spread out. The man was practically laying on top of him, and Harry was unsure of what was most unnerving about this situation: the fact that Riddle had not tried to kill him yet or that it seemed the man was pressed much too close.

Closer than Harry thought necessary. The reports had not included any information about possible sexual assault...

“Did you ever wonder how it was that I was taking their blood? You never did quite uncover that answer…” Riddle said before digging his teeth sharply into Harry’s neck, the sting enough to pull a gasp from Harry’s mouth.

What is Riddle even talking about?

“...or how their arms and legs were torn away from their torsos without evidence of heavy machinery to pull their limbs apart?” Riddle continued after releasing Harry’s skin from between his teeth, his neck feeling uncomfortably warm.

Likely bruised, Harry was sure.

“You expected a normal serial killer, I would imagine?” Riddle said, and Harry tried to jerk his head away from Riddle’s hard grip on his head to look at his face. To gather some sort of understanding as to what the bloody fuck was going on, but Riddle’s grip was firm. It felt like Harry had been trying to move a wall with his bare hands.

“I’m not human, Harry James Potter.” Riddle purred, and Harry cried out when Riddle sank his teeth into his neck once more, his teeth somehow sharper and longer than they were seconds before, as they sliced and cut into his throat savagely.

Harry’s mouth split open in shock, his body spasming. He hardly registered the pain in his surprise.

But then, as soon as the shock passed, the pain came. As swift and sudden as the press of Riddle’s hot mouth on his neck.

The pain was incredible, the agony flaring up each time Harry felt the man suck against his skin, his blood forced right out from where the man’s teeth had broken his flesh. Harry’s vision swam, a pained noise ripped from his mouth when Riddle dug his fingers more harshly into his hair to restrain him when he tried to fight, his head shaking and trying to buck the man away.

No….

Harry felt darkness creep at the corners of his eyes as Riddle—no, a monster—continued to drink. His thrashing grew weaker and weaker with each drag, his mouth parting wide as he tried to make sense of what was happening to him.

What is this….Harry thought, unable to voice the question when Riddle tensed his jaw and ripped another pained cry from Harry’s lips, the burn like acid shooting straight into his veins.

Harry felt like he was dying.

Harry hardly felt when Riddle released his tight grip on his hair, so consumed by the pain that when he blinked, his head was no longer pressed tightly against the headboard. Harry’s head had slumped to one side, his quivering muscles caving on him now that Riddle was no longer keeping it up.

Riddle continued to drink, and Harry no longer had the strength to jerk his head. Let alone, to pull against the rope tying him down.

Am I dying? Harry wondered, feeling weaker and weaker with each suction of Riddle’s hot mouth. It felt like his life was being drained away, the burn of his blood being forced out of his veins slowly fading into nothing—his fingers and toes growing numb as the darkness became more prominent across his vision, black creeping further along his vision..

I’m dying and Riddle is a va—

Harry couldn’t get himself to think the word, the ridiculousness of it too much. It just couldn’t be.

This simply could not be real, Harry thought as his vision lost its focus, a weak whimper leaving his lips as his glasses fell further down his nose. But he’s sucking your blood straight from your bloody veins? This is no dream, a traitorous voice whispered, and Harry’s stomach fluttered, incredibly nauseous.

Oh god, Riddle is a vampire...

And then Riddle stopped, his tongue swiping at the broken skin, before lifting his head—his face flashing across Harry’s darkening vision before he felt he felt Riddle’s fingers press into his cheek. The hand was ice cold, and Harry shivered when Riddle forced Harry’s face to look at him.

The first thing Harry noticed was that Riddle’s mouth was red and moist with blood, his chin dribbling with the substance. Harry wanted to scream, but when his mouth parted, only a weak sound escaped. A high-pitched sound that reminded Harry instantly of a wounded animal.

Harry did not want to look the man in the eyes, but he could feel Riddle’s burning gaze, practically demanding for Harry to look.

Scrunching up what little energy Harry had left, his nerves static beneath his skin, Harry snapped his gaze to Riddle’s.

Harry felt his heart seize, noxious and pervasive panic shoot up his spine, his eyes wide with his horror.

Red.

The man’s eyes were red—the glimmer brighter than even the crimson staining the man’s sharp, fanged teeth when he grinned at Harry’s ashen face. Harry wanted to struggle, to put up some form of fight, but his body refused to cooperate.

Harry’s body was unresponsive, dead weight as he stared into the eyes of a monster, the darkness at the corners of his vision making his panic grow with each passing second.

“Exquisite.”

A croon.

And then, deep unfathomable black.