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Fuck.
Harry glanced at the newspaper, which reported yet another murder in the residential area near Diagon Alley. A recent wave of serial killers, most likely a concept stolen from the Muggle world, was sweeping across the wizarding world throughout Europe and America.
The victim this time was an unknown gentleman named John Flume, who apparently sold potion supplies in a small shop near Diagon Alley.
There was nothing unusual about him.
"I don't understand, what happened to the victim's body?" Hermione frowned, looking at the newspaper. This wave of murders worried her terribly, mainly because of the bad connotation it gave to Muggles, further amplifying prejudices. "Why would someone kill someone just for the sake of killing?"
“Maybe he got horny killing Flume?”
Hermione looked at him, looking extremely concerned. "Harry, what– what makes you say that?”
“What? It’s not like I’m wrong, is it? I mean, statistically, most serial killers kill for sexual gratification.”
Hermione didn’t seem convinced at all, because she bit her lip and furrowed her brow in the same way whenever she couldn’t put a particularly complex thought into words. “Harry, you…” she hesitated. “You think it’s sexually exciting to kill someone?”
“What? No, Hermione, I’ve never killed anyone.” Harry paused, sighing slightly exasperatedly. A warmth spread from his collarbone to his cheeks, and he felt relieved that it was dark enough that his friend wouldn’t notice the redness in his face. “Of course not. I mean, if I were a serial killer, I’d find killing someone hot. But I'm not.”
“Harry. That’s… that’s wrong. People don’t think that way.”
“What’s wrong with that? Of course, they think so! I’m not a serial killer, so it’s not hot. I just said that if I were, which I’m not, I’d get horny.”
“Stop, stop, stop– just… stop talking for a moment, okay? That’s a very concerning thing to say. Even in jest. And no, people don’t think like that.”
“Yeah, I suppose?”
“You suppose? Harry, this isn’t a game,” Hermione frowned, her voice trembling slightly but still firm. She took a step back from him, eyes wide with something between fear and disappointment. “It doesn’t matter if you haven’t hurt anyone– if you’re sitting here romanticizing murder like it’s some kind of fantasy… that’s not normal. That’s not okay.”
“...”
“You... you don’t actually think like that, do you, Harry?”
Harry fidgeted slightly under her intense gaze, unable to meet her eyes. He knew Hermione could read him like an open book, and he hated it at times like these.
“Of course not,” he said quickly, a little too quickly for it to sound convincing. He sighed, running a hand through his messy hair. “I was just talking nonsense, you know? Just saying stuff without thinking. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“If your friends in Slytherin-”
The shift in topic caught him off guard. Harry straightened a little. “This has nothing to do with me being in Slytherin.”
Hermione's gaze seemed to harden slightly, a flicker of irritation flashing in her eyes. “Doesn’t it?” she asked, her tone sharp. “You don’t think it has anything to do with the fact that you're in the house that’s known for producing the most dark wizards?”
Harry bristled at her words, his own irritation flaring. “Oh, not this again,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Just because I’m in Slytherin doesn’t mean I’m automatically evil, Hermione.”
“I didn’t say you were evil,” Hermione said, her voice softening slightly. “But don’t you think it’s strange? You’re talking about killers and their motivations as if you can understand them.” She paused, choosing her words carefully. “It worries me that you’re so... detached about it.”
Harry's expression darkened. He didn’t need Hermione psychoanalysing him like she always did.
“I'm not ‘detached,” he retorted, his voice sharper than intended. “I’m just curious, I guess. There’s nothing wrong with being curious.”
*
Harry was panting heavily, the cold air of the dark alley cutting through his clothes and causing him to shudder uncontrollably. His muscles were tense, his body thrumming with a mixture of fear and adrenaline.
As he looked down at the body beneath him, his vision blurred in and out of focus. It was a man he’d never met, some poor sod who had been chosen randomly as his first victim.
He could feel... something. A twisted, sick sense of satisfaction in knowing that he’d had the power to take this man’s life. It was... intoxicating. Addicting, even.
He leaned down, the tip of his nose almost touching the victim’s neck.
Fuck. Killing someone was actually hot. Shit, he’d just proved Hermione right.
His breathing hitched at his own movement with a sharp intake of breath.
His hips rolled against the body beneath him, a slow, almost involuntary motion that seemed to come from a place he didn’t even know existed. It was like a sudden release of tension, a wild and desperate need to feel some sort of stimulation after the rush of the kill. The sound of their pants against fabric was loud in the silence, and the sensation sent a new wave of heat through him.
Shit.
He couldn’t see himself in the dark of the alley, but he could imagine the scene. The sight of his body on top of the lifeless form, the movements of his hips as he ground against it, the way his hands gripped the fabric of the man’s shirt tightly. Merlin, what would Voldemort say if he saw that?
Harry stilled for a moment, his hips freezing mid-roll.
Voldemort, oh god...
He closed his eyes, picturing Voldemort. Imagining his dark eyes watching him, his lips curving into a cruel smirk at the sight of Harry, his enemy, taking his pleasure from the body beneath him.
He'd call Harry weak. His Lord would find it ridiculous and extremely distasteful that Harry would allow himself to be carried away by feelings – very personal emotions, that is – rather than reason.
And not only that, Harry is leaving many loose ends and running a huge risk of being caught by Aurors and going to Azkaban. If anyone catches him now, there's no excuse that can save him. The scene itself is completely illegal.
Or maybe, Harry grounded down again with a quiet whimper escaping him, maybe He’d reward me.
He imagined His hand on his back, the soft whisper of His voice in his ear. “You’ll make a fine addition to My ranks, Harry.”
He began to move again, hips grinding more forcefully against the dead body. He was so lost in the moment, so caught up in the twisted fantasy, that it almost felt like Voldemort himself was there, watching.
He could feel a bead of sweat trickling down his temple.
“My Lord,” he gasped aloud, as he ground down against the dead body, chasing the release it brought him. “Yes, my Lord, please…”
His body trembled as he reached the peak of his pleasure, his head tilting back in the dark alleyway as a muffed scream tore through him; no sound came out, only ragged breaths and the quiet thud of his heartbeat in his ears.
He collapsed forward slightly, arms trembling as they held him up over the corpse. He felt empty yet full. Terrified yet euphoric.
Harry staggered back, trying to clear the fog from his mind.
He just killed someone. And then he masturbated over the corpse, thinking about his archenemy.
“Oh, God,” he choked out, bile rising in his throat. “Oh, God—”
He stumbled, his legs suddenly feeling like jelly. He hit the concrete wall, leaning heavily against it.
After a few minutes, Harry got up, somewhat dazed. He needed to clean up this mess and think about what to do with his body.
Hermione was right. Slytherin was doing him bad.
*
“Who’d have guessed… The boy-who-lived, Dumbledore’s golden boy and the Light’s icon, likes to indulge in necrophilia when no one is looking.”
“Shut the fuck up, you don’t know shit about me,” Harry cursed. “How did you get in my room?”
“How dare you speak to me like that,” Voldemort hissed in a low voice. “You think I don’t know what I’m talking about? You think I haven’t seen the darkest of men fall to their baser instincts?”
He leaned in close until their faces were inches apart, his crimson eyes boring into Harry's green ones.
“You’re no better than a common animal,” Voldemort spat out with disdain. “Rutting against a corpse like some mindless beast.”
“Go to hell, Voldemort” Harry shouted, his voice trembling with defiance despite the fear coursing through him. “You don’t get to judge me. You’ve killed hundreds, thousands! You’re a monster!”
He tried to pull back, but Voldemort’s grip was unrelenting.
“Even my own Death Eaters wouldn’t stoop so low as to practice necrophilia,” The Dark Lord said with a disgusted tone. “Although... you would make a fine addition to my ranks. No one judges proclivities in my ranks, regardless of how depraved they may be.”
“I’d rather die than join you.”
“You'd rather die, hm?” he mused cruelly. “Considering your new... preferences, I suppose that would be rather enjoyable for you, wouldn’t it?”
Harry whimpered, his hand moving over the fabric of his pants, his imagination taking over. He could almost feel Voldemort’s breath on his skin, his cold eyes watching him as he touched himself – his breath hitching in short gasps between each of Voldemort’s sentences.
“And yet,” Harry imagined Voldemort saying, “Here you are.”
Harry collapsed, falling even further in his bed. His limbs trembled, and he could still feel parts of his thighs throbbing. What a mess, all of this, a tremendous, enormous fucking mess.
What would Voldemort really say if he saw him like this? Beyond his bizarre, sudden fantasy with the Dark Lord (which he almost thought were real for a moment), he wouldn’t know.
You-Know-Who was the most fickle constant that existed, and he didn’t want to risk finding out either.
Here he was, indeed.