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They have been at this a while now.
Every deep, shuddering breath brings the candles flame into sharper relief and crimson stained eyes gleam before him, an ocean that blinks with amusement and pleasure as the flesh meets the flesh.
The room around them is quiet other than for the noises they are making and it adds to the intesity of it all.
Voldemort tightens his grip on Harry's hips, the pale fingers pressing into his skin strong enough to leave bruises. Even when the marks paint his skin, it feels like those hands that always itch with magic, volatile and quick to melt the flesh of those that attempt to forget their place, are caressing Harry like every part of him is precious and deserves being adored.
From the recesses of his mind, Harry still hears the vows pronounced in parseltongue by Voldemort in front of numerous witness about protect every bone of his body and cherish him until his breathe ceased. It was so cheesy he almost chuckled, but Harry only smiled because he did understand saying it was deeply important to Voldemort.
“Let it be known that on this joyous day, Harry Potter and Thomas Gaunt are one heart, one flesh, one soul,” the cloaked Ministry representative had stuttered after, coming forward with a pair of silver rings on a cushion that reinforced the magical vows they’d made when they put them on. Harry didn’t know the Ministry man and didn’t care to know, but he can remember his gulp before he said almost pityful, “Cursed be those who would seek to tear them asunder.”
It wasn't soft at the beginning.
How could had been, when they were powerless, slowly dying and their magic was chained for the protection of the Wizarding World? “I'm truly sorry, my dear boy,” Dumbledore said when Harry woke up with a void that started to devoured him from the inside. “It was for the Greater Good.”
And, of course, there was the fact that they wanted to murder the other at the time.
When he went to Voldemort with only the clothes in his back and a useless wand, the man stared at him with anger. Harry looked back into the red eyes and Voldemort tilted his head a little to the side.
“Harry Potter,” he said very softly, almost purring, but the rage still pulsed in those singular eyes. “How does it feel, dying for the same people that threw your name to the mud for years? What did they called you, again? A liar?”
Harry was meant to face Voldemort. Kill him or be killed himself.
But that was taken from him the moment his blood, the same blood that thrums in Voldemort's veins, was stolen and a ritual to chain both their magics happened against his will. And one of the things they had in common was the anger bursting inside them, the vehement hate that called for a fight.
Harry doesn't know how they stopped throwing fist to each other, but they ended stinking sweat somewhere in Riddle Manor, the blood making its way to the marble floor as they lay close. Voldemort was saying something. “—The Boy-Who-Lived, fallen a victim to the world you are so eager to save—”
“Shut up,” Harry spit, cold fury in his chest as he spoke that made it difficult to not simply start the fight all over again. “If you weren't an evil fucker this wouldn't be happening."
He almost expected Voldemort to take offense, but the man only laughed. It made Harry beat him, starting another fight between them.
“Unfortunately, our goals have alligned this time.” Voldemort said while his snake, Nagini, mumbled something about them being two dickheads as she left the room. “I'm not expecting us to make friendship bracelets and braid our hair together, Potter, but—
“Yeah, we cannot do that” Harry interrumped, “you have no hair.”
And they fighted for the third time that day.
Harry wants to glance over to the flames —to where the candle light grows brighter every time he is buried deep inside the older man—, the way he always does when the gleam in Voldemort's eyes becomes too sentimental with the groans that passes his lips.
He knows how easy is to jump in that ocean until he's crimson stained and unable to let go.
Harry had drown himself so many times in those eyes to recognize when he needs to stop staring.
But...
Harry learned than taste the skin under his lips and to lick every curvature of his neck can melt Voldemort under the attention, to caress his erection and kiss him, needy and sweet, until every touch reduces the Dark Lord to a writhing mass of pleasure. The candle flame casts deep shadows in the hollows of his cheeks, highlights the fine patterns of his scales. He’s as beautiful as he is terrifying.
Faced with such a sight, Harry is unable to not drink in it greedily.
There's just no resisting him.
Voldemort repeats the motion of his hips and the movements sends a pleasant spike of heat up his spine. A sheen of sweat covers his skin from what they have been doing for the last hour by now, this thing that Harry cannot name out loud.
“Harry,” Voldemort voice is low, nothing more than a hiss, and he keeps watching that intense gaze of his that sometimes is still able to give him goose bumps. “Harry. Harry. Harry.”
It isn’t love-making. Neither of them would call it that.
Harry knows you don't make love with someone you hate...except that somewhere in the road Harry's anger started to found relief in the bites that he left in Voldemort skin and the kisses he pressed to the lips now singing his name almost like a plea.
It became a sick joke when they discovered that the only way to reach their magic again was having sex.
"You're sure this is going to work?” Harry asked, lip bitten and voice starting to raise with the anger that tickled his entire self along with the void where it should have been his magic. “I'm—What's the point, Tom? You're a fucking murderer, you fucking deserve to die! I would kill you if it didn't mean end my own life too. And—even now I'm the one who's dying first. What is the point? This could be dangerous. Horribly dangerous.”
Voldemort held a hand on Harry’s head and threaded his fingers through his hair. “So is life, Potter,” he looked intently into his eyes, edges a little closer to him, "we're born, and immediately a thousand things are trying to kill us. And a thousand quickly grows to a million, and then a billion. We can't lie down in the face of those odds, we have to fight them.”
“Suffering creates greatness,” he whispered into Harry's ear, his breath a caress against his skin. Harry hated him more in that moment for he could not ignore how it encircled him, wrapped him up in both curiosities and...need.
With a hand still holding his head, the red eyes dipped to Harry's lips before drawing back up, “...It's going to work,” Voldemort assured and then he kissed him with fury.
And because he is an evil fucker, Voldemort, to demostrate that they had acomplished their goal even when they were feeling the way their magic started to bond like the bodies of siamese twins, had send through their mental connection the images of his hand opening Harry's chest, grabbing his heart and feeling the firm beating muscle against his palm before ripping it out at the same time they both had reached the climax together.
Together.
He more feels than sees that the world around them has grown still, frozen in a moment between split-seconds. His body is too heavy and light at the same time, no longer really like his own but something Voldemort and he share as the magic that twirls around them is stops to differentiate between both of them as separate entities.
They both moan and Voldemort reaches up to grasp the headboard, using it as leverage to thrust back against Harry. He shifts his weight, supporting himself entirely on a single forearm and getting his other hand between them to wrap around Voldemort’s straining length. The older man tenses, gasps, and all but explodes, spreading warm and thick semen that slides through Harry’s fingers.
It takes Harry only one more stroke to find his own completion.
As always, the feeling of coming inside Voldemort is indescribable. Harry had learn that trying to commit it to memory it’s impossible: it’s too much, overwhelming every sense, blazing through him and leaving him without so much as a wisp to cling to.
The only way to know what it had been like is do it again.
And again.
And again until they are this shaking people that wrap each other in bed.
With a wave of his hand, the candle flame cease and the silver moon in the dark sky is left to be the only light in the room.
“I despise you,” Voldemort is murmuring, eyes closed, and Harry only snuffles happily and curl around his arms. The words are hateful, but over this year together the meaning have shifted to something more intimal and—maybe close to the word with a capital L.
“I despise you more, y'know,” Harry says. “From here to the moon and all that cheesy stuff.”
It had started with pain because that is what they are made of, with confusion and anger and too many mistakes. (Harry only could tell Ron and Hermione some parts of the stupid road trip they made in their search of a way to break the chains to their magic, but he is never going to say out loud what happened with that unicorn, because seriously Tom, you're not a princess to have this unhealthy unicorn obsession and Potter, you and your stupid face were the reason we had to run to save our lives from that old witch and Nagini, stop calling the rabbits carrot-fuckers) But they have each other in a way they don't have anyone else.
They are one heart, one flesh, one soul, from now on.
Harry had tried to let Voldemort go, to destroy every horcrux and finally kill him but—he wasn't capable of that.
“We both know I despise you even more, husband” Voldemort says, hands caressing his sides. “To the infinity and beyond.”
Yeah, Harry likes their wedding night so far. But he's still bitter that he have to thank the Order of the Phoenix and their bad decisions for this.
“What are we going to do next?” He ask. “If we defeat Dumbledore.”
”When,” Voldemort corrects. “I recall you saying you wanted to start a little chaos... Tell me, Mr. Potter-Gaunt, how does world domination sound?"
"Cliche,” he replies, “and Lucius and Hermione might put their differences aside just for attempt to kill you because of the paperwork,” Harry looks up to watch the crimson gaze of Voldemort, his smirk promising all kind of sinful things, "but still fun.”