Hello, everyone!

I apologize for my long absence but I was taking a break. You know, just reading fanfiction rather than writing it. But I'm back now and I plan to update the rest of my HP fics too.

CHAPTER THREE

Side along apparition had never been Harry's forte, but admittedly, he liked to believe that after months of popping from one place to another with Ron and Hermione he'd gotten rather used to the nauseating sensation of being squished through a tube.

Never the less, that still didn't prevent him from staggering like a drunkard the moment his feet reconnected with solid ground.

Ironically enough, it was only Voldemort's grip on his wrist that kept him from outright humiliating himself by ceremoniously landing on his arse.

Ears burning up, he wrenched his arm free.

The look that the older wizard favored him with would have made fully grown men cower in fear.

Scowling, Harry turn to eye their surroundings, squinting slightly. Nightfall was already beginning to settle, but as far as he could see, only a couple or so lamp posts had been lit. Which, in itself, caused him to blink and do a double check. Were they in Muggle London or something?

Turning on the spot, Harry swirled around, taking in the outdated little cottages that lined up the entire square.

That pretty much summed it up. Definitely not London.

"Where are we exactly?"

Voldemort didn't even spare him a glance. Wordlessly, he proceeded towards the only alight lamp, forcing Harry to begrudgingly fall in step with him.

Two lamp posts were stationed at either side of a narrow pathway that led up to the stone steps of a church.

If he had taken his time to properly look at the church, Harry might had actually found it pretty familiar, but as it was, he was preoccupied with gawking at the granite statue that had sprung up on them. From the distance, he had gotten the impression it was some sort of erected obelisk, but as they neared, faces started carving themselves on its surface, followed by the full shape of their bodies.

Harry had actually forgotten about the statue's existence. Moving as it was, he had been more interested in his parents' graves.

Taking another look around, he tried imagining the same scenery but with the addition of snow. The previous time he had been here with Hermione it was Christmas Eve. The pavement, the cottages, the church…everything had been covered from top to bottom in snow.

Seeing it now, it came as no surprise to him that no signs of recognition had been stirred. Without the snowflakes, and the square devoid of the sound of Christmas carols, the village seemed rather barren, hollow even.

Shaking his head, he made to follow the Dark Lord towards the entrance of the cemetery.

They passed by many tombstones, some of them engraved with names known to them both; Dumbledore, Peverell…

Harry, however, didn't dare glance at any of those. Filled with an itching sense of foreboding, he kept his eyes glued on Voldemort's form a few paces ahead of him. What business did the Dark Lord have with his dead parents? Goodness, even in his own head, that single sentence had sounded utterly ridiculous.

Predictably, Voldemort's steps came to a halt directly before James and Lilly's Potter tombstone.

Just beneath the inscription: The last enemy that shall be conquered is death, lay the wreath that Hermione had conjured; withered, and with more than half of the flower petals on the ground.

…The sight was depressing.

Why weren't ever flowers in his parents' grave? Hermione's wreath was actually the first to grace the cold tombstone.

Had Sirius and Remus never come here? Not that he founded that particularly hard to believe. He doubted they ever stepped foot in this village after the events of that Halloween night.

What about the other people, though? All those that had written their names on the statue? Had not a single one of them felt compelled to bestow their esteemed heroes' final resting place with a small token of their gratitude? Then again, he wouldn't put it past them to view it as blasphemy. Perhaps they didn't want to make it seem as pity.

"Figures that Dumbledore would have wanted a say even in this." Voldemort said, apparently answering one of his inner musings. "It's all quite poetical, really." he went on, glancing at Harry from over his shoulder. "I signed their deaths," he gestured airily at himself before pointing towards the gravestone, "but the old coot wouldn't have been satisfied with allowing me the last say. He had to put his signature as well."

The initial shock hadn't even started to fade away for the offense to sink in, before Voldemort continued, seemingly voicing just another notion of his, "What do you think?"

His head tilted to the side in silent evaluation of the relatively empty space on either side of the Potters' grave. "I wonder if there's enough room for that mutt and the wolf. Perhaps it would be prudent to make some more, just for precaution's sake."

"Excuse me?" Harry blurted, thunderstruck. Teeth grounding loudly together, he stepped up to the wizard. "You said you wouldn't hurt any of them. You took a Vow!"

"Yes," the Dark Lord said absently, still contemplating the grave before him, "However, I hold no doubt in my mind that they will attempt to whisk you away from me, which of course, shall be viewed as an act of rebellion. Therefore, I will be free to act as I please."

The furious face of Sirius's thrashing form flashed in Harry's mind and he would be lying if he said he wasn't scared shitless, because he didn't believe for a second his godfather was actually going to abide by the agreement.

"No!" Harry yelled, grabbing onto Voldemort's elbow. "You can't hurt them!"

"Careful, Potter." The Dark Lord finally tore his gaze away from the tombstone, eyeing meaningfully the hand firmly gripping his own, "You don't want to overstep the boundaries of your Vow, now do you?"

Harry glared at him, but when he made to remove his hand, Voldemort's arm shot out and dragged him forward by the elbow.

"Wha-?"

"While still on the delicate matter of Vows, I believe it is due time we completed the ritual. We have reminisced enough for now."

Disoriented by the abrupt change of topic, Harry was going to inquire about the meaning of that sentence and next thing he knew, warm lips came crushing upon his own. He was given only a millisecond for his eyes to widen, before a fierce shock wave coursed through him, bringing all upcoming thoughts to a dead end.

A cry was torn from his lips as he pushed away from the other man, enveloping his middle within the folds of his arms.

He stared at the ground, panic flooding his eyes with every second that went past and the scorching sensation seemed nowhere near subsiding. His body was becoming incredibly hot, unbearably so. He felt like he was running a fever.

"What did you do to me?" he breathed out, registering the deeper tone his voice had adopted but refusing to acknowledge it.

Voldemort's gaze felt measurably heavier than usual, instilling in Harry the urge to shy away from the first time since the man's resurrection. He just stared at him, unwaveringly and unblinkingly, not once straying away. Unsettled, and distinctly uncomfortable, Harry's arms tightened around his person.

"This is the final requirement to be met." Voldemort sounded perfectly composed, voice undeniably steady compared to the jumbled mess Harry's had turned into.

It irked him how frustratingly cool the other was capable of acting, even though Harry was certain that the effects of whatever this was extended to him as well.

"What requirement?" he bit out, temper unwittingly flaring.

The smile Voldemort bestowed him with was disconcerting, to say the least. So vague that it was impossible to be interpreted in any sort of way. "Intimacy is the trigger to initiate the bracelet's effect."

Harry's brow furrowed, not soothed in the slightest bit by that.

"To put it mildly," the Dark Lord went on, taking a step forward, "your entire body will get warmer and warmer to the point that the heat will eventually drive you insane, in all of its literal and figurative glory, unless you…" he chuckled indulgently, giving the stunned youth a wry little smile, "well, shall we say, douse it?"

Fingers burrowing in the robes' fabric, Harry's lips pressed together, fed up with the beating around the bush that Voldemort was so keen on. "And how do I douse it?"

The older wizard swooped down, and he meant that in every sense of the word. Seriously, one moment he was standing a few feet away, safely at distance, and the next he was right in front of Harry, hands on the younger man's hips and face way too close for comfort.

Harry yelped, caught off guard by the abrupt rush of heat that accompanied Voldemort's proximity.

"It's rather simple, actually." Voldemort whispered almost conspiratorially, his breath hot against Harry's ear, "All you need to do is give in."

And he promptly bit down on the shell, causing Harry's eyes to grow double in size from the way his body just seized up.

…Horrified.

Harry was absolutely horrified how an action so simple compared to other forms of intimacy could affect him so greatly that his legs would tremble.

"Stop," he whispered back, scared to hear the state his own voice had been reduced to.

He was no kid.

He could add two and two together. Not to mention, Voldemort's actions combined with the looks he was given left little to no room for doubt. And Merlin, the Dark Lord was now sucking on his earlobe and Harry felt on the verge of collapsing. He didn't understand what was going on. He thought the ritual had been over. No one had told him about a final stage in it.

"Stop," he repeated, firmer this time. "This isn't what I signed up for!" He shoved at him, pushing violently at his chest and getting him to remove his hands.

Instead, Voldemort grabbed his thrashing wrist, making Harry pause from both the jolt that crawled up his arm and the abnormal angle the appendage was being twisted. "Quite on the contrary. Your oath was to submit to me; and what's the most natural form of submission?"

He didn't want this.

Voldemort had taken everything from him, including his freedom.

This, however, was something he had never even considered as a potential demand.

Feeling more trapped than ever before, and with his borrowed wand confiscated by the Dark wizard, Harry could sense the tell tale signs of suffocation creeping up on him.

The grip Voldemort had on his wrist was iron like. The more he pulled, the more Voldemort tightened his hold, and as if in response, the more he felt his wind pipe being crushed. He tried clawing at the older wizard's hand in an attempt to get him to let go, but the man didn't appear the slightest bit fazed by the multiple scratches now marring his skin, some of them deep enough that had started to ooze blood.

The prolonged flesh on flesh contact was making Harry's wrist seem like it was on fire.

In his panic induced haze, Harry took to retaliating in the only possible way he could think of; with all the strength he possessed, he slammed his foot onto Voldemort's.

He was certain that it was merely by surprise that the man's hold grew momentarily slack.

Harry didn't waste any more precious time; he bolted while he could.

Zigzagging around gravestones, he made a beeline for the exit of the cemetery, where he actually paused. He raked his eyes up and down the square, wringing his brain for any sort of hideout within the small village. Discouraged and just a little panicky at coming up empty handed, he tore towards the right, faintly recalling the outskirts to be in that direction.

He couldn't believe he was actually considering this, but he found himself a tad grateful towards his cousin and his thrice damned gang of morons for all the years of Harry Hunting. It was only thanks to that that running came so naturally to him.

It was mildly similar to his Seeker position, as a matter of fact.

Once he was out in the pitch, he knew what had to be done to earn the points that would ensure his team's victory; fly as fast as you can, don't lose the other Seeker, track the golden snitch. It was as simple as that. During matches was the only time he could concentrate on something without being sidetracked by any wandering thoughts. That was the case with running as well.

The instinct of what came with it had been instilled in him since a very long time ago.

Though, he had to admit, he'd take Dudley and his gang over the Dark Lord any day.

This time around, when the small cottage came into view, he barely even spared a glance at the board that sprung up, stomach churning at the very prospect of reading for a second time the messages of encouragement and blunt proclamations of loyalties. They spoke of a time of peace and celebration, of years long gone, and he despised them for that.

He pushed past the gates, aggravated that he had been tasked with fulfilling such a humiliating contract.

Where was the Harry Potter whose praises had been sung throughout Wizarding Britain, the Boy-Who-Lived that was prophesized to bring about the salvation of all wizarding kind?

If there was such a Savior, where the bloody hell was he? Because Harry could really use one right now.

The ransacked building that appeared about to collapse at any given second was anything but on the inside.

Harry's steps froze on the threshold, wide eyes taking in the immaculate interior of his once home. He was aware that magic had been used to retain the place as it used to be, but he certainly hadn't expected for the lights to turn on the moment he went in. The entrance door closed softly behind him, emitting a whispering little thud as he leaned his weight against it. And why should it creak? The Fidelius had not been breached; the enchantment had allowed Voldemort to walk in with nothing but a mere unlocking spell on the door. There had been no need to force his way in.

Having been entrusted the house's location by Pettigrew, the safe keeper himself, it was child's play from then on for the Dark Lord.

Harry knew…He had, after all, seen the entire night precisely as it had been unfolded.

Besides having his wand broken and acquiring several broken ribs by Nagini, Harry had escaped Godric's Hollow that night with Voldemort's memory of the events that had taken place all those years ago. He had been unconscious for three days in a row, Hermione had said, eyes bloodshot and sleep deprived.

"You were thrashing around," Hermione whispered, voice full of gratitude, and Harry's still foggy brain was unable to fathom why she'd sound so relieved just from seeing him wake.

He squinted, not sure if he was imagining things without his glasses, but he could have sworn there were water trails running down his friend's face.

Then, Hermione buried her face in her hands and Harry sat up, instantly alarmed at the sobs that racked the girl's entire frame.

He winced, back cracking impossibly loud and arms screaming their protest at being made to push his body into a sitting position. He gnawed on his lower lip till he tasted blood, fighting nail and tooth to refrain from projecting his rising discomfort at the hammering inside his head.

Perhaps he didn't do too much of a decent job at it, because Hermione's muffled sobs rose in volume, glassy brown eyes peering at him through shaky fingers almost shamefully.

"I'm s-sorry. God, Harry I'm s-so sorry! There was n-nothing else I could d-do!" her voice was bordering on hyperventilation now, body shaking uncontrollably, "You were screaming a-and…and thrashing a-around so much…You kept trying to scrape your face raw! I didn't know what was going on, Harry, you were like a man p-possessed… I used ropes to tie you down, but you struggled worse, and- god, I'm so sorry!"

Harry tuned her out, shutting his eyelids tight against the images that flashed vividly in his mind.

He brushed past the inconsolable girl, forgetting all aches as he rushed for the exit of the tent, making it only a few paces away before retching violently on the snow covered ground. Afterwards, once there was nothing else to heave, Harry pushed away from the revolting sight. His fists slammed the ground repeatedly, refusing to stop even after losing sensation to his hands.

Arms slid around his torso, constricting his arms to the point he wouldn't he able to move them.

"It's in the past, Harry!" Hermione mumbled in his ear, probably scared that by raising her voice she'd send him spiraling into another feat, "Please, there's nothing you can do about it now!"

Harry froze, blown green irises tearing to the side to stare at her, taking her face in for the first time since coming to consciousness. From this close, he could clearly make out the tears that were streaming down her cheeks. Her face was too pale, unhealthily so, and there were black circles beneath her eyes, deep enough to hint on the sleepless nights spent.

…She said he had been screaming.

Witnessing first handed Voldemort's sickening point of view, and being forced through the man's whimsical bursts of absolute glee that accompanied the death of each of his parents, Harry was terrified to inquire about the content of his screams.

Had he shouted in desperation along with James for Lily to flee, or had he begged for his mother's life to be spared, like she had done for him?

…Had he laughed, enjoining far too much the helpless state Dumbledore's favorites had been reduced to?

He didn't want to find out the answer but whatever it was he had said, Hermione must have gotten the gist of it in the end, the clever witch that she was. She hadn't been upset about the method she employed to subdue him, it would seem. Then, what were those tears for? Were they meant for his parents, or…?

Harry turned the other way, fingers tugging on midnight strands of hair. His parched throat wasn't nearly enough to stop the anguished howl from tumbling out.

He didn't care if she pitied him now.

He simply hadn't wanted anyone to find out just how messed up he was underneath.

Hermione let him, arms only steeling around him when he sagged against her. She didn't say anything, but the fact she hadn't upped and left spoke volumes to Harry, more than actual words ever could.

Staring at the sitting room that spread before him now, he vaguely entertained the notion of how cozy it looked…

…That is, if one ignored the stench of death that seemed to flood the place.

Making his way over to the staircase that led to the upper floor, Harry half expected to find James Potter's lifeless shell sprawled across the wooden steps. A breath left his shaking lips upon seeing them bare, and he mentally berated himself. What the hell was he even thinking? His parents' remains had been the only thing that was removed from here.

Fingers bracing around the shiny wood of the banister, Harry climbed up, openly cringing when he passed next to the spot his father had laid, dead after direct contact with the Killing Curse.

Quickening his pace, he glanced briefly at the door on his right that greeted him upon reaching the top.

He bypassed it, not curious enough to glimpse the room it concealed and instead moved across the hallway, pausing between two other doors. One on his left and the other on his right; both of them were exactly the same, from the natural coloring of the wood which was a light brown, down to the shape of the iron handle.

Harry turned right, swallowing harshly. He lifted a hand to the knob, shuddering reflexively at the chill that shot up his arm, and opened.

The nursery that stood beyond was exactly the same as in Voldemort's memory.

Painted a soft aqua hue, the walls were as Harry had imagined a baby boy's nursery room to be. The lamp on top of a couple of drawers illuminated a beige ceiling and along with it the miniature figures that had been drawn; dragons of all colors flapped their bat-like wings when the door shut behind him, blinking and stretching languidly as if awoken from a deep slumber. A couple of Hippogriffs and Pegasi were peering strangely at him, while some others turned to preen themselves.

In the other side of the ceiling, right above the wooden crib that stood at the far end of the room, a black dog, a red stag, a brown wolf, a white deer and a grey rat were chasing around in circles. He went ignored as the wolf and dog tackled the deer to the ground only to leap away seconds afterwards, tails wagging merrily.

Feeling physically ill, Harry turned away from the sight, intending to walk out of the room when his eyes landed on a couple of small toys strewn over the small space between the drawers and the crib.

A low, pitiful moan passed through his lips, recalling perfectly the way his mother's form had fallen on top of them.

Face burying in the depths of his palms, he couldn't help but question the rationality of his decision to come here. Because he had nowhere else to go? Surely anywhere else would have been better than this place!

Mind made up, Harry strode over to the door only to withdraw his outstretched hand before it had even touched the knob.

Gathering his arm close, he stared down at the golden jewelry resting snugly around his wrist, eyes widening at the implication of the twinge that had coursed through him.

"Oh, no…no, no, no." he muttered, head shaking from side to side defiantly. "Don't do this to me now."

As if seeking to contrast him, the warmth he had been blissfully deprived of thanks to the distance between him and Voldemort, slowly started seeping back into his bones, rekindling by the second. Harry's arms wound around himself, despairing at the tingling sensation that spread from head to toe.

Why hadn't he heard Voldemort entering the house?

Had he made any sound while processing through the house? He couldn't remember. His mind had been otherwise preoccupied.

He started when his back made contact with the wall, unaware he had been walking backwards all this time.

The door across him burst open, the grating sound it made after snapping clear off its hinges overlapping Harry's pained cry as there existed no more barriers between the Dark Lord and himself. The so far bearable warmth turned all of a sudden into a heat that scorched him whole.

He looked up through hooded eyes, surprised for a moment there was no real fire licking at his skin, before his gaze was involuntarily drawn to the figure in the threshold.

Voldemort strode into the room with confident, steady steps, and to his horror, Harry could sense his pulse quickening with each one of them.

Vivid green eyes swept over every corner of the room, as if checking to make certain that everything was still in place, before finally ending their perusal with the crib. The man seemed inexplicably transfixed with it as he made his way over for closer inspection.

Harry extracted himself from the wall tentatively, taking cautious steps towards the unguarded doorway.

"So many memories," Voldemort breathed lowly, causing Harry to freeze in his tracks.

Hesitantly, he directed his gaze towards the other wizard, fearful of his findings. And righteously so.

A pair of smoldering emeralds was trained on him, noting his every move.

Aware he had been caught red handed, Harry abandoned all pretences and made a run for it. His triumph however, proved to be short lived. No matter how many times he tried or pulled, the handle wouldn't budge the slightest bit. Breathing deeply to calm himself, he turned just as a familiar white wand disappeared within the folds of Voldemort's robes.

What were his chances of getting to that wand?

Harry pressed back against the surface of the door, wishing he could shrink into it. "Unlock this door."

"Or…?" Voldemort prompted, the challenge in those eyes momentarily distracting Harry from taking notice of the man's deliberate strides towards him.

"Or nothing," he ground out, skin crawling as the space between them was slowly bridged. "I don't want any part in this."

"A shame, really." the Dark Lord braised himself, arms poised at either side of Harry's head, caging him in.

The static between their bodies felt almost tangible.

"Because it ceased being your choice the very instance you Vowed on your magic to surrender to me." A breathy whisper in his ear.

Harry shuddered, the hot puffs of air causing the hair on the back of his neck to stand on end.

"I didn't mean it in the literal sense of the word." he argued back, turning his head the other way for some sort of reprieve from that unrelenting stare only for his chin to be gripped harshly, depriving him of movement.

"It matters not. I own you, now and forever."

Seething by the mere prospect of that concept, Harry brought his arms up, smacking Voldemort's fingers away. "Hands off! It burns when you touch me."

"That's," His arms were suddenly pulled up and above his head, where Voldemort proceeded to slam them non too gently against the hard wood of the door and receiving a pained hiss from Harry, "because you keep resisting the pull of the bond." As if to further the Dark Lord's claim, a ring of flames was beginning to settle around his wrists, from where the sleeves of his outer robe had ridden low enough for the skin on skin contact to become unavoidable.

Nose scrunching up in discomfort, Harry tugged at them but when he only achieved to make Voldemort apply more pressure, one eyelid closed in a wince.

"Why do you insist on fighting when I am violating you already?" The man's free hand was hovering in front of his face now and once it lowered back down, his glasses were taken along, leaving his narrowed eyes on open display.

"Yesss," Voldemort murmured lowly, a peculiar, rough lilt to his voice, "That's exactly the look." The corner of his mouth quirked sideways. "Who would have thought that ire would be so becoming on you, Harry?"

His gaze set into a glare, "Don't you dare cal-mphhh!"

Voldemort's tongue invaded his open mouth, the wet muscle instantly seeking out his own tongue and sweeping it into participation.

Harry moved bodily backwards, but with the solid surface on his back and Voldemort's other hand pulling at his hair to tilt his head upwards in a more suitable angle, there was little to nothing else he could do other than remain in place.

His stomach was performing such vicious flip flops that Harry felt nauseous.

Feeling his face unwittingly heating up under that unwavering stare he was being subjected to, Harry shut his eyes, hoping fiercely that by doing so he could pretend none of this was actually occurring. There was no deal struck between Light and Dark. They were still at war, fighting for their lives.

He really didn't know whether Voldemort had sensed his wandering mind, but the man's movements suddenly gained gusto.

The fingers entangled in his hair tugged rougher, the hand enclosed around his wrists constricted more and the intruding organ in his mouth turned aggressive, gliding over the roof of his mouth, proceeding to explore every inch of his cavern. It was like the other wizard wanted to possess Harry's every single thought.

Disoriented and a tad short on breath, he tried to tear his mouth away.

In response, Voldemort's tongue only plunged in deeper, rendering any acts of rebellion on his part useless. Harry was seriously starting to consider the possibility of the man being allergic to refusal.

When Voldemort deemed it acceptable to break the kiss, Harry felt like his lungs were seconds away from collapsing in on him.

Breathing sharply through the mouth, he finally took notice of how badly his legs were shaking; so much so he feared that should Voldemort release him now, they were bound to give out.

"When will you realize it is useless to run away from me?" Voldemort lapped at their combined saliva still lingering on his lips, taking captive his lower lip before withdrawing.

"Give up, Harry. Give in."

He felt trapped.

His mind was reeling, resolutely refusing to comprehend anything except how sinuous and downright sensual his name had sounded.

God, what was wrong with him?

Voldemort was messing with his head already.

"Why did you ask for the ritual if you hate me that much?" he muttered, gaze dragging unconsciously to the scattered toys on the floor, "Was it to humiliate me? Is this your version of revenge for what I did to you that Halloween night?"

Voldemort chuckled, low and mirthless. "If I did hate you, I would have buried myself in you by now and be done with the matter entirely."

Harry shuddered.

"However, I am a considerate Lord and I will allow you the freedom of choice." The hold around his wrists strengthened when he failed to lift his gaze from the floor.

"Would you rather I take you right here, right now? Or would you prefer we move to your parents' bedroom? I'm certain the bed has been sustained soft."

His head jerked up as if it was tied to strings.

He stared aghast, unable to discern from Voldemort's face whether he was actually serious or if it was the wizard's morbid sense of humor talking.

A hand pushed apart his outer robe, running down the plane of his abdomen, the feathery light touches on his shirt covered skin phantom promises of what was soon to take place.

"Which do you prefer, Harry?"

He shivered despite himself, his ear tingling even when Voldemort's mouth was no longer there.

An image flashed in his mind, of him sprawled on the floor right on the spot his mother's lifeless body had been laying, cold and empty, with the Dark Lord straddling him and stripping him of his ceremonial clothes. The whole picture, but especially the background scene, was so violently sick that bile rose to the back of Harry's throat.

Just barely, he registered Voldemort's hand finally slipping away from his wrists, no longer pressing them against the door.

It was self-preservation really – one of the rare occurrences that the instinct decided to make itself known – that drove him into motion. He would surely lose whatever grasp he had managed to maintain so far on reality if a scenario like that played out.

His arm shot out, grasping Voldemort's own, and for a moment he was left staring at it as though it was another person's limb and not his.

Feeling rather than seeing the weight of the Dark Lord's gaze on him, he lifted his head, "Anywhere…" he relented, the admission cutting through him like a knife, "but here."

The smile Voldemort bestowed upon him could only be described as feral, "And the magic word?" he urged, face inching closer.

Harry drew in a shaky breath, making to let go of that arm.

The Dark Lord's steely stare made him reconsider.

Eyelids fluttering close in what felt suspiciously like resignation, he was way too worn out to care, Harry allowed a small reprieve to his aching head before reopening them, green instantly clashing with green.

"…Please." he breathed against those lips, hoping that the strangled sob was smothered by the mouth that covered his.

And as he felt the usual tugging sensation behind his navel, he wondered if he had reached bottom yet. How farther could one possibly fall?

END OF CHAPTER THREE

So, I've got an idea and I would like to hear your opinions.

How about adding in some one sided Draco/Harry? How does that sound?

I've been toying with the idea for a while but I don't know yet if I'll actually go for it. My one and only will always be Voldemort/Harry or Tom/Harry.