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"You're too old for this, mate," Ron said, tossing a crumpled packet of crisps at Harry's head. It bounced off his forehead and landed on the floorboards between his bed and the wall—that narrow, shadowed gap he'd spent half his childhood staring into.
Harry didn't answer. His fingers tightened around the edge of his mattress, knuckles white. The room smelled like dust and the faint metallic tang of something he couldn't name.
"Seriously," Ron went on, flopping onto his own bed across the room. "Sixteen. Legal. Practically an adult. And you’re still—what, scared of the dark?"
"It’s not the dark," Harry muttered.
"Then what?"
Harry exhaled sharply. How could he explain the way his pulse hammered whenever his foot dangled too close to the edge of the bed at night? The way his skin prickled when he *heard* it—not a sound, exactly, but a presence, a weight in the air like held breath.
Ron rolled his eyes and flicked off the lamp. Darkness swallowed the room whole.
Harry didn’t move. His heart thudded against his ribs. The space beneath his bed wasn’t empty. He knew it like he knew his own reflection—a certainty bone-deep and unshakable.
And then, soft as a knife sliding into flesh: "Harry."
No.
His breath caught. That wasn’t Ron’s voice.
Ron snored lightly, already asleep.
The floorboard creaked.
Harry’s blood turned to ice. Something *shifted* under the bed—a slow, deliberate drag of weight across wood.
"You’ve kept me waiting," the voice murmured, curling up from the darkness like smoke. "Such a rude boy."
Harry’s throat closed. He knew that voice. Knew it from nightmares that left him gasping awake, sheets damp with sweat.
The thing under his bed laughed, low and delighted.
"Now," it said, "let’s play."
Harry's muscles locked. His fingers dug deeper into the mattress, nails scraping fabric. The air thickened—sticky, oppressive—like the moment before lightning strikes.
A hand slid over his ankle.
Not a hand. Too long. Too many joints. Cold as grave dirt and twice as wrong.
Harry jerked his leg away, but the fingers tightened, pinning him in place. The grip burned, not with heat, but with a creeping numbness that spread up his calf like poison.
"Shhh," the voice cooed. "You’ll wake your little friend."
Another creak. The bed frame groaned under sudden, shifting weight. Harry squeezed his eyes shut. If he didn’t look—if he didn’t see—maybe it would stop. Maybe he could pretend this wasn’t happening.
Wet laughter dripped into his ear.
"Look at me, Harry."
The command slithered into his skull, nestling behind his eyes. His lids fluttered. Against his will, they opened.
Pale. So pale. A face hovered inches above his own—sharp as shattered bone, lips stretched too wide over needle teeth. No whites in those eyes—just pupils drowning in pools of bloody red.
Voldemort.
Harry’s breath hitched. His childhood nightmare grinned down at him, strands of greasy hair brushing his cheeks.
"There you are," Voldemort crooned. One spidery hand traced Harry’s jaw, leaving a trail of goosebumps. "All grown up."
The mattress dipped. A knee pressed between Harry’s thighs, forcing them apart. Cold seeped through his pajama pants.
"N-no," Harry choked out.
Voldemort’s smile widened. "No?" He leaned closer, nose skimming Harry’s throat. A tongue—forked, flickering—darted out to taste his pulse. "Liar."
Heat flooded Harry’s face. His traitorous body trembled, caught between terror and something else—something shameful and hot coiling low in his gut.
A clawed finger hooked into the waistband of Harry’s pants.
"Let’s see what you’ve been hiding," Voldemort whispered.
Fabric tore.
Harry gasped. Cold air kissed bare skin. Voldemort’s gaze dropped, hungrily devouring what little privacy Harry had left.
"Oh," he breathed. "Perfect."
Harry’s stomach twisted. He should fight. Scream. Do anything but lie there like prey waiting to be devoured.
A hand—too many fingers, too many knuckles—wrapped around his cock.
Harry’s back arched. A strangled noise escaped his lips.
Voldemort chuckled. "So eager." His thumb smeared precome across the head, slow and filthy. "I knew you’d taste good."
The tongue lashed out again—longer this time—lapping a stripe from base to tip.
Harry whimpered. His hips jerked.
Darkness swallowed Voldemort’s grin.
"Mine."
Pain flashed—sharp, bright—as teeth scraped his inner thigh. Blood welled, dripping onto sheets.
Harry’s vision blurred.
The creature under his bed moaned, lapping at the wound.
"More," it demanded.
And Harry—
Harry obeyed.
Harry's gasp shuddered into the dark, swallowed by the wet, sucking sounds between his legs. Voldemort's tongue—too long, too pointed—curled around the bite mark, drawing out another thick bead of blood. The pain twisted into something molten, pooling low in Harry’s belly. His cock twitched against his stomach, flushed and leaking.
Voldemort murmured against his skin. You like being hurt."
Harry’s protest died as those skeletal fingers tightened around his throat, cutting off air. Spots danced behind his eyelids. His hips bucked helplessly, seeking friction, relief, anything.
The pressure vanished. Harry coughed, dragging in ragged breaths. Before he could recover, Voldemort’s weight shifted, pressing him deeper into the mattress. Something hard and cold nudged against his entrance—not a cock, nothing human—ridged and tapered like a—
Harry’s eyes flew open. "No—"
Voldemort’s grin split his face ear to ear. "Beg."
The tip pressed in, relentless. Harry’s nails tore at the sheets. It burned—stretched him obscenely wide—yet his body yielded, slick with something thick and coppery. Blood, he realised distantly. His own.
"There," Voldemort crooned, sinking deeper. "You take me so well."
White-hot pleasure-pain lanced up Harry’s spine. His toes curled. A broken sob tore from his lips as Voldemort bottomed out, hips flush against his ass.
Then he moved.
Harry’s vision whited out. Each thrust carved him open anew, the unnatural shape inside him hitting places that shouldn’t exist. His cock dripped untouched, bouncing with every brutal snap of Voldemort’s hips.
"Look at you," Voldemort hissed, claws raking down Harry’s chest. "Dripping. Begging. Mine."
Harry couldn’t speak. Couldn’t think. His body wasn’t his own—just a vessel for Voldemort’s pleasure, his pain, the searing stretch of being filled beyond capacity.
A claw traced his lower lip. "Open."
Harry obeyed.
Voldemort’s fingers plunged into his mouth, gagging him on the taste of his own blood. The dual invasion—mouth, ass—sent Harry spiraling. His thighs trembled, muscles locking as pressure built, unbearable.
Voldemort laughed, breathless. "Come."
Harry shattered.
His orgasm ripped through him like a live wire, back arching off the bed as he spilled across his stomach in hot, helpless spurts. Voldemort fucked him through it, merciless, until Harry’s oversensitive nerves screamed.
Only then did he still, buried to the hilt. Harry whimpered, oversensitive and raw.
Voldemort leaned close, licking a stripe up Harry’s sweat-slicked neck. "Good boy."
He pulled out slowly, watching Harry’s hole flutter around nothing. More blood seeped out, staining the sheets black in the moonlight.
Harry’s limbs felt like lead. His breath came in shallow, stuttering hitches.
Voldemort crouched over him, pupils blown wide with hunger. Again."
Harry’s stomach dropped. "I can’t—"
"You can." A hand fisted in his hair, yanking his head back. "You will."
The creature’s other hand pressed against Harry’s abdomen, fingers splayed. Something writhed beneath his skin—dark, pulsing.
Harry’s cock twitched, half-hard again impossibly fast.
"See?" Voldemort purred. "You were always meant to be mine."
Harry moaned, hips jerking. The foreign heat inside him coiled tighter, demanding.
Voldemort’s cock—hard once more—slid between Harry’s thighs, smearing blood and come. "Choose," he whispered. "Here—" A teasing press against Harry’s ruined hole. "Or here." The head nudged against Harry’s lips.
Harry’s tongue darted out before he could stop himself.
Voldemort’s laugh was a thing of nightmares.
Across the room, Ron turned over in his sleep.
Harry barely noticed.
The monster under his bed had him now.
And Harry—
Harry didn’t want to be saved.