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Cold of Night	By : Hijja Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male Views: 3751 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Cold of Night
- 1
Disclaimer: The characters in this story belong to J K Rowling. I'm just experimenting with them a bit. No harm intended, no money made.

Pairing: Harry/Lucius

Warning: NC-17, slash, darkfic

Note: Heartfelt thanks to ari, Chthonia and Veritas, who looked at the original draft and told me with varying degrees of bluntness: 'No, I don't think so!'. Anne Phoenix went out of her way to go over the revised version. Remaining cryptic-ness is entirely my fault!

Cold of Night

by Hijja (kennahijja@yahoo.com)

For soon the cold of night will fall

Summoned by your own hand.

(Queen, The Prophet's Song)
Cold.
The world is cold.
He crouches on the ground in a skin of snow, his blood frozen to ice in his veins.
His hand still rests on the body lying in front of him. He's forgotten the creature's name and why it had to die, only knows that he's killed it with a touch of his hand, without a wand. He's sucked away something essential, has broken something that shouldn't be broken, and in return he has been changed into this... shell.
His wand lies - somewhere. He knows it is splintered, destroyed. He has killed Him Whose Name He Can't Remember - and there's something funny in that thought, though he can't say why - and his enemy has pulled his soul along towards death, where it still clings at the doors of damnation, barely hanging on to life.
It's cold. That will never change.
He hardly feels the hands that descend on his shoulders and dig in, pulling him to his feet. His knees buckle, and he's held up only by the grip on his upper arms. It hurts. But it's warm; the only sliver of warmth in his whole body. He tries to look up, but his eyes feel frozen too. He sees ice-pale hair in the corner of his vision, and though he can't connect it with a name, he knows it means death.
An arm wraps around his shoulders, another hoists up his knees, and the man's wand, still in his hand, pokes his calf. He knows that he should be struggling instead of allowing himself to be carried off so much like a child, but the arms around him are blissfully warm against his frostbitten flesh, contrasting with the other's frosty hair and expression.
He buries his face against the man's neck, feeling hot blood course under thin, pale skin. It warms his icy cheeks. Just when he has sunk into a dreamy state of near-comfort, being rocked gently with every step up creaky stairs, the man pauses and leans against the wall, breathing heavily.
There is noise coming in from the window, a voice augmented by a Sonorus Charm, but he's too cold to listen, and the other is unlikely to care.
He risks a glance out of his refuge and sees his captor sneer down at him, contempt curling in the very curve of his lips. He-
Harry! He was Harry!

The thought hits him out of nowhere, as if the other were passing on knowledge along with his glare. Harry is too chilled to flush, and the hand around his shoulder moves to grab his hair and wrench his head back for those haughty lips to descend upon his. It is sheer mockery of Harry's clinginess rather than a real kiss, cruel teeth digging into his lower lip until sluggish red creeps out, and is sucked away in a stinging pull. But Harry feels the warmth of that mouth even as it assaults him, and he opens his lips to the onslaught, earnestly greeting the invading tongue with his own before drawing it into his mouth and sucking on it. He isn't sure whether the rough, slick slide is pleasant, but he savours the heat of it as long as he's able.
There is a harsh laugh when the other's mouth pulls away from his, scorning the keening note that breaks from deep within him at the loss of contact. Harry feels himself being shifted and the arm supporting his knees disappears. He is leaned against a wall, hung with a tapestry upon which embroidered serpents slither up and down, tickling his bare neck. They're woven from cool silk, and yet feel warmer than he does. His feet nearly give way under him, but the other's arms come back around him and long legs entangle with his own, wobbly ones, keeping him upright.
He's still not close enough, so Harry leans forward to press his face to the man's shoulder, where pale skin gleams from underneath black cloth. The other hisses sharply, and Harry discovers a deep, blooming gash half-hidden under a tear in his robes, red but unbleeding. He recognises the telltale glossy film of an Insanguinus Charm cast on the cut to prevent blood loss, because once he knew how to cast it himself.
Once, before the ice came.
Now, he just frowns and impatiently pulls the torn robe out of the way to lay his mouth over the core of the wound, feeling the aggressive heat of blood pulsing underneath, angrily beating against the magic that holds it back. He flicks his tongue at the red, glistening centre like one of the snakes of Him Whose Name He's Forgotten... tastes the dry, metallic pulse, and a groan reverberates in his ears. Less pained, more demanding.
A different source of heat nudges against his thigh where their legs are entwined. Harry presses himself against it because it's pleasant against his chilled skin, and he hungers for more warmth. There is another gasp, and then the other's wand tip begins to glow and an iridescent wave of magic pours like a filmy sheet over the door to the room, where it solidifies. Wards, Harry's distracted mind offers.
Suddenly he's aware again that this is the enemy, injured and desperate. One whose master he has destroyed. Who is on the run. Undoubtedly, the voices behind the Sonorus Charm are even now demanding his surrender. Perhaps they even demand for him, Harry, to be restored to them; perhaps, if they don't know that he's been turned into a dried-out, iced-over shell that would do anything to feel warm. Harry knows that this enemy will not pay any heed to the demands from outside, no more than Harry would if their roles were reversed, if he had been overcome by the one whom he fought and who froze his soul trying to take him along.
But even if they make it inside, those misguided rescuers, they'll have to break through the wards and through the defences of this dark house. And until they do, Harry will squirm against the only body there is, because he's half-frozen, and desperate.
Then the other kneels on the ground, Harry's body on his lap in a tangle of cloth. Harry fists a few folds of the man's robe and tugs, not trying to remove it so much as indicating he wants it gone. There is another sharp bark of laughter, and then Harry's robes are pulled up roughly, bunched around his hips and upper thighs. A Vanishing Spell makes short work of his trousers and underwear.
Harry draws in breath through his teeth in a sharp hiss at the sudden feel of air on his lower body. The damaged cloth of the other's robe slides easily off his torso, and the pulsing red of the wound gaping just below the pectoral muscle beckons Harry like a siren's call. He winces as his head is roughly pulled back by the hair, and decides, with an almost petulant twist of his lips, to devour the nearby nipple instead. The other suffers his tongue - and teeth, because the nub grows hard and pleasantly hot under Harry's persistent nips - until he's dragged away yet again.
Harry shivers with discontent when the man pulls him off his warm lap and shoves him onto the stone floor in front of him. For a moment, they kneel eye-to-eye: Harry's wide and determined; the other's narrowed to storm-grey darkness.
Then he leans forward and slides both hands up the insides of Harry's thighs, spreading them apart as he goes, and Harry shakes his head, once from left to right as if he were shaking water out of his ear. His hair stands on end at the feel of those long, tormenting fingers exposing him in a way he's never been bared to anyone before. They remain there, spread out at the joint of hip and thigh, pointing at the tender skin behind his balls. Harry burns to push himself against those hands, to turn suggestion into reality, to drown in warmth and skin.
The other inserts his knee between Harry's spread thighs, pushing them apart even further, and the fingers vanish from Harry's groin with a last tantalising slide, only to close about Harry's hands to pull them to the man's own lap. Harry would not dare look for all the gold in Gringotts, but a curious streak makes him obey. He strokes along skin that is generously warm to the touch, and grows into smooth hardness when he wraps his fingers around it. A different kind of magic... Harry's fingers play over it, giving a careful experimental tug. But an impatient thrust into his hands warns him off too great caution, so he strokes and pulls more insistently, luxuriating in the friction that radiates heat into his palms.
He keeps his eyes carefully averted, though, until the man grabs his chin, forcing him to look up into that sharp face with its dual expression of want and horrible amusement before the disdainful lips prey on him again and he gives himself up to them with a quiet sigh. He feels... cradled by that devouring mouth, and thinks that being swallowed whole would leave him basking safely in the man's heat forever. The other steals Harry's breath and leaves him clinging dizzily until black streaks dance before his eyes, fingers still clutching rapidly hardening flesh.
"Put your hands around my neck," a hoarse voice orders when the man draws back to allow him a few shaky gulps. Harry reluctantly tears himself away from his task and locks sticky hands behind the man's neck. He presses his chest against the other's, kneeling almost on his lap.
Harry holds on tightly as his cock makes itself known, caught between their bellies and poking up insistently. The other waves his wand again, and the wood slides, feather-light, over Harry's bare buttock, making him shudder. He shudders even more when something wet and smooth and oily trickles down his cleft and then a lone finger twirls in the oil and chases it down and spreads it over the... pucker there, which feels tickly and exciting and makes Harry's skin want to shrivel up as he holds on, head buried at the other's shoulder, more paralysed than ever. The finger circles, and circles, and ever so often dips, which feels awkward and full and yet Harry wishes it would press deeper already. When it does it burns, first a little, then quite a lot, and although the pain runs up the nerve ends of his spine, Harry embraces the searing heat.
He scowls when the finger vanishes, listens to the slick sound of more oil being spread over flesh. And then the other ducks forward, sliding both hands up Harry's thighs to clutch his hips in a tight grip. Then he flips him around and lifts him up so effortlessly he might as well have been using Wingardium Leviosa. Perhaps he does.
The other keeps up his death grip on Harry's hips, lowering him down ever so slowly until hardness nudges the spot the fingers have just left. The little part inside him that is still the old Harry gibbers in terror at what he's doing, but his mouth curls into a sneer at that fragment of himself, and he obligingly spreads and raises his thighs as far as they can go. He needs to forget, and to burn.
And then it really hurts when his arse is settled down onto the man's oil-slicked member, which burrows into him like a bolt trying to screw into a too-narrow hole. He swallows a scream and tenses until the burn becomes almost unbearable, because the slickness of the magical oil allows that... instrument... to slide even deeper, and he cannot force it out.
Pain eats its way up his synapses until his insides seem to char with it. And the conflagration is not enough, because he needs it to blaze unchecked until it engulfs all of him, scorches his frozen mind, melts him down into ore and casts him back into hot flesh instead of ice.
Harry grinds his teeth and gives a sharp downward thrust, trying to shove the invader in more deeply. He muffles a pained wail by biting down on his fist, eyes squeezed shut tightly as the burn transforms into sickening agony that travels up his spine, dull and wrong and merciless. And then he wails aloud when hands grab his hips and pull him off, chuckling, lift him up a little, and settle him down again at a more bearable angle that hurts still, but feels right.
He throws his head back against the man's sweat-slick shoulder and wetness spills onto his cheeks. He's surprised for a second that he still knows how to cry. But he doesn't struggle, just purposefully lets his body melt into the hands that hold him, that lift his hips in one breathless moment of relief and anticipation, only to let gravity dip him right back down into the fire again.
Harry wonders what he must look like, clenched in fierce determination, shuddering in agony, and with that uncontrollable hunger spilling from his every pore. He can feel the flutter of the other's faint emotions where their skin touches, like pressing his ear to a fake wall in a stone tunnel, a hard-won, now corrupted gift. Surprise and condescension mix with an ever-so-faint flicker of awe at the raw need of the creature in his arms. And yes, an answering hunger.
They ignite a spark inside him, those thrusts, again and again like a flint hitting just the right angle on a stone, and he feels a rush racing through him that makes his head spin and his fingers curl against the skin of the other's thighs. Harry curves his calves along sharp hipbones at a near-impossible angle, ignoring his cramped muscles and the unnatural position he's folded himself into. The thrusts subside to a rocking motion once the other is fully sheathed inside him, and another murmur and ghost touch of magic sends a warm, bone-melting languor through Harry's body that lets him slide deeper onto the cock moving inside him. With his last few functioning brain cells, it awes him how anyone can still cast magic under the onslaught of such sensations.
The hot surge inside him makes him squirm with need, and he's grateful when one of the hands that have been bruising his hips travels between their bodies to wrap around the curve of his erection. He moans his gratitude in a voice that would humiliate him to dust if he could be bothered to think about it. But as it is, he just glories in the thoroughly uncareful grip that, in the fingertip that slides along the swollen vein at the underside of his cock, and the other, which spreads slick drops of precome over the vulnerable tip, over and over until Harry fears something inside his skull might just incinerate.
And then it does, so quickly that Harry is unprepared and overcome by the blinding heat that takes him, body and mind at last, so fundamental that the little burst of wetness that spills over the tormenting hand around his cock seems like the most banal of signifiers. He senses more than he feels the few rough thrusts that bring the other to completion as well, hot and soothing his raw insides. He just feels warm, cradled inside and out, and it takes moments, minutes perhaps, until the other pulls Harry off and lets him slide into a half-embrace on his lap, rearranging splayed limbs in a more comfortable, decent position.
Harry could happily rest there, unmoving, for the rest of eternity. His lips curve upward, but the smile radiates out through his whole body, the kind of happiness to fuel the strongest of Patronus charms. Not just from sheer ecstasy, but also because it has finally chased away the cold.
But then cool eyes bore into his, and a determined set hardens the still-flushed features.
"It's too late, little Dementor," the man says, and something about that mocking endearment just stops Harry's breath right there in his lungs and he can't think or feel for a second. It's not the threat in those final words, it's... He shakes his head again; he won't go there!
Harry knows, as well as the one he has just - is that what 'making love to' means? - that there is no escape from this house of riddles, and even if there was, no place to escape to. Flinging the body of their 'saviour' at the rescuers' feet when they come in will be his enemy's final gesture of contempt. And letting them see what has transpired before, the final twist of the knife.
And he doesn't even think about fighting, because the icy shards are already reforming in the marrow of his bones. So even throwing his body to the enemy could do no more but stave off the inevitable, and Harry knows he won't have the courage to come begging to anyone else. He fears the cold more than an end to it.
So he screws his eyes shut and nudges his lips against that unforgiving mouth because he will bloody well be kissed again, will taste that heat once more, before-
He puts all he is into that kiss, all he ever has been, because it will be the last time. He lifts his hands to cup those aristocratic cheekbones and opens his mouth to the sweetness of it. Warmth spills through him, like hot butterbeer, like the swallowed rays of an autumn sun, rich and ripe and better than flying. Harry drinks it in, glories in it, and when it transforms from lust into the sharp tang of fear, like honeyed chocolate spiced with cloves and hot pepper, he knows nothing else will ever compare.
And then the thrill fades until it's just... gone, as if he's emptied the cup to its last sediment of saturated sweetness, and all that is left is to put it back onto the saucer.
And then the china shatters as he opens his eyes to a slack face, bereft of whatever beauty animation has lent it. There is no life left in the dull eyes, and nothing rekindles under Harry's trembling fingertips.
He hears his breath hiss in his throat, rattling with hysteria as he beats the man's chest with both fists, unmindful of his injury... but if the expression on that pale face turns pained it's just a reflex, an unconscious pain that hosts no recognition. It is too late to slap the sharp intellect back onto those features, and seeing the trickle of saliva at the corner of that mouth wrings an inhuman howl out of his innermost self.
Perhaps there is irony in it somewhere... that the trap his nemesis had laid even in death has been sprung on one of his own; that the other has even, in jest, called his downfall by its true name, as if naming Harry to finally damn him, and himself. But if there is irony, the shattered creature that once was Harry can no longer perceive, even less appreciate it.
Its nemesis's death has torn open its mind as he pulled with all his fading power to take it along. And the void has crept in through the tears. Only that it has not, in time, perceived the nature, and the depth, of that void.
Too late, indeed, and when the rescuers come to find the creature after tearing down the wards of the house, they shiver at the touch of its skin, which looks watery grey from the cold, and at the pervading chill that surrounds it. Where its fingers rest on the naked skin of its victim's chest, a film of sweat turns slowly to ice.
And it takes them a long time to understand, because the fingers of the fledgling creature are still clutching its former enemy's half-discarded robes in a grip that takes an hour to break, until prying them apart begins to feel like sacrilege. The creature's teeth are clenched, its lips pressed together in a thin grey line, as if its last conscious decision had been never to open them again.
And although it should have been a happy day which marked the final downfall of the Dark Lord Voldemort, none of those present will ever be able to draw a happy memory from the hour they found the fledgling creature and its first victim in the attic of the Riddle House. And they know beyond a shadow of doubt that no happy thought will ever flower in the presence of either one of them again.

~ finis ~

Feedback: Let me know if it makes any sense - and especially if not.
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Cold of Night