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Title: Hidden Things
Author: Evandar
Fandom: Harry Potter
Rating: R
Genre: Horror/Romance
Pairings: Voldemort/Harry
Warnings: Underage, age disparity, mild blood play
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter and am making no profit from this story.
Summary: Harry doesn’t have a wish, and he’s not sure that Tom’s a real genie, but that doesn’t stop him from summoning him anyway.
Author's Notes: This was written for the Halloween Fest at![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
hp_creatures for a prompt asking for genie!Voldemort. This...deviated somewhat from the prompt - oops!
The diadem is where he left it.
He closes his eyes and breathes a sigh of relief as his fingers curl around the metal. It is strangely warm to the touch, and magic pulses through it like a heartbeat; like the rhythm of some siren-song that has tangled round his senses. He lifts it from its box, tucked away in the back corner of the bottom drawer of an abandoned writing bureau – the bloodstain on its fold-down writing surface is clue enough as to why it’s tucked up here, surrounded by the detritus of a thousand years of school life – but Harry doesn’t care. All he knows is that it’s the perfect place to hide the diadem, and a comfortable enough thing to lean against.
He does that now, loosening his tie and slumping back against the bureau’s side. He bites his lips red as he traces his fingers along the diadem’s engraving - “wit beyond measure is man’s greatest treasure” - and he undoes the top two buttons of his shirt before rubbing the sapphire in the centre three times.
Three is, of course, the most magical number – which begs the question as to why the Founders thought four was necessary. Certainly Gryffindor…
The genie appears in a swirl of shadows. His magic burns along the edge of Harry’s senses, and it burns cold. It’s the strangest contrast to the warmth of the diadem in his hands, and it always makes him shiver.
It would bother him more, if the genie didn’t like to see him shiver; didn’t like to see him debauched-looking and wanton.
Harry isn’t sure that the genie is really a genie. For a start, he doesn’t think a real genie would be called Tom. But that is neither here nor there – he hasn’t made any wishes to test Tom’s power yet, and he’s found that the genie’s hunger for power and freedom can be sated in other, more enjoyable, ways.
After all, no wish is without consequences. And while lustful dalliances with a being that may or may not be an imprisoned spirit in a hidden room that no one knows about might also, one day, have consequences, at least no one has died yet.
“Little Slytherin,” Tom says. A forked tongue flickers at his lips, just barely visible, and his red eyes gleam as they trace the vee of pale skin at Harry’s throat. “Back again? And so soon?”
He’s not sure Tom knows how little time actually has passed; from what he’s been able to gather, time moves differently within the diadem, and Tom has no real way to keep track of it. His only clue is the purple swell of a bite mark just peeking from under Harry’s shirt. The bruises the genie left on him last time haven’t healed yet. Fortunately, Harry has enough sway in the Slytherin dorms to be left alone instead of hounded for answers. Or worse, reported to Snape for ‘illicit, underage activity’.
He shrugs. He might have spent almost every moment of the last day and night thinking of their last encounter, but he’ll never actually tell Tom that. “I finished my homework early,” he says – and it’s not a lie, thank you – “and your company is infinitely preferable to that of my peers.”
“More entertaining than young Mr Malfoy,” Tom says drily. “How you flatter me.”
He kneels by Harry’s feet. At least, it looks like he’s kneeling: his legs are nothing but intangible smoke and shadow below the knee, and he’s semi-transparent to mid-thigh. (He’s growing stronger, somehow; Harry can see more and more of him each time.) His hands, however, are as solid as the bureau at Harry’s back as he plucks his diadem from between Harry’s fingers and places it in his hair instead.
Harry shudders. Wearing the diadem has always seemed too intimate for his liking, but Tom seems to enjoy it when he does, and…well. He denies Tom the privilege of granting his wishes – truthfully, he has none that would be worth the price he’d have to pay – and there’s little point in denying him this as well. Something so small and so harmless. Something that frees his hands to tangle in the thin, black cloth of Tom’s robes and to pull him close.
Tom doesn’t breathe. His heart doesn’t beat beneath Harry’s fingers as he slides his hands over the firm planes of Tom’s chest. His lips are cold when they press against Harry’s own.
Real genies are spirits of fire, according to the textbooks Harry has read; Tom’s only fire is his passion as he pulls Harry into his lap and pulls his robes from his shoulders.
“Have you a wish today?” he hisses as he sinks his teeth into Harry’s collarbone – right into the bite from the last time. Harry bucks against him, twists at the pleasure-pain coursing through him, and he grasps Toms’ hair to press him even closer.
Tom’s teeth are sharp. The copper-scent of blood fills Harry’s nose, and he doesn’t care in the slightest. A long-fingered hand is already making its way into his school trousers.
“No,” he breathes, and hauls Tom up from his neck so he can lick his own blood from thin lips. “Never.”
“Not yet,” Tom corrects, and Harry lets him.
Tom…isn’t lying. Not exactly. Harry knows that one day he likely will have a wish worth paying for; he knows that day will likely come sooner rather than later. There are whispers in Slytherin of Marks darkening and a lost Dark Lord, and Harry thinks he’ll pay any price to stand at that Lord’s side when the time comes. (He’d hate to prove his father wrong, after all.)
“Not yet,” he agrees, and Tom smiles wickedly into their next kiss. It doesn’t fade, even as he guides Harry back onto the floor and strips off the rest of his uniform. He looks almost mad with glee as he sinks into Harry’s body, stretching him open and making him wail with pain – the preparations Harry had made in the dorm aren’t quite enough – and pleasure, and Harry throws back his head and closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to see that expression on his face.
Tom will destroy him, one day.
But until that day he’ll writhe beneath him and take his pleasure however he can. For as long as Tom is within the diadem – for as long as Harry keeps it hidden and safe, or wears it throbbing in his hair – Tom will be his.
Author: Evandar
Fandom: Harry Potter
Rating: R
Genre: Horror/Romance
Pairings: Voldemort/Harry
Warnings: Underage, age disparity, mild blood play
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter and am making no profit from this story.
Summary: Harry doesn’t have a wish, and he’s not sure that Tom’s a real genie, but that doesn’t stop him from summoning him anyway.
Author's Notes: This was written for the Halloween Fest at
hp_creatures for a prompt asking for genie!Voldemort. This...deviated somewhat from the prompt - oops! The diadem is where he left it.
He closes his eyes and breathes a sigh of relief as his fingers curl around the metal. It is strangely warm to the touch, and magic pulses through it like a heartbeat; like the rhythm of some siren-song that has tangled round his senses. He lifts it from its box, tucked away in the back corner of the bottom drawer of an abandoned writing bureau – the bloodstain on its fold-down writing surface is clue enough as to why it’s tucked up here, surrounded by the detritus of a thousand years of school life – but Harry doesn’t care. All he knows is that it’s the perfect place to hide the diadem, and a comfortable enough thing to lean against.
He does that now, loosening his tie and slumping back against the bureau’s side. He bites his lips red as he traces his fingers along the diadem’s engraving - “wit beyond measure is man’s greatest treasure” - and he undoes the top two buttons of his shirt before rubbing the sapphire in the centre three times.
Three is, of course, the most magical number – which begs the question as to why the Founders thought four was necessary. Certainly Gryffindor…
The genie appears in a swirl of shadows. His magic burns along the edge of Harry’s senses, and it burns cold. It’s the strangest contrast to the warmth of the diadem in his hands, and it always makes him shiver.
It would bother him more, if the genie didn’t like to see him shiver; didn’t like to see him debauched-looking and wanton.
Harry isn’t sure that the genie is really a genie. For a start, he doesn’t think a real genie would be called Tom. But that is neither here nor there – he hasn’t made any wishes to test Tom’s power yet, and he’s found that the genie’s hunger for power and freedom can be sated in other, more enjoyable, ways.
After all, no wish is without consequences. And while lustful dalliances with a being that may or may not be an imprisoned spirit in a hidden room that no one knows about might also, one day, have consequences, at least no one has died yet.
“Little Slytherin,” Tom says. A forked tongue flickers at his lips, just barely visible, and his red eyes gleam as they trace the vee of pale skin at Harry’s throat. “Back again? And so soon?”
He’s not sure Tom knows how little time actually has passed; from what he’s been able to gather, time moves differently within the diadem, and Tom has no real way to keep track of it. His only clue is the purple swell of a bite mark just peeking from under Harry’s shirt. The bruises the genie left on him last time haven’t healed yet. Fortunately, Harry has enough sway in the Slytherin dorms to be left alone instead of hounded for answers. Or worse, reported to Snape for ‘illicit, underage activity’.
He shrugs. He might have spent almost every moment of the last day and night thinking of their last encounter, but he’ll never actually tell Tom that. “I finished my homework early,” he says – and it’s not a lie, thank you – “and your company is infinitely preferable to that of my peers.”
“More entertaining than young Mr Malfoy,” Tom says drily. “How you flatter me.”
He kneels by Harry’s feet. At least, it looks like he’s kneeling: his legs are nothing but intangible smoke and shadow below the knee, and he’s semi-transparent to mid-thigh. (He’s growing stronger, somehow; Harry can see more and more of him each time.) His hands, however, are as solid as the bureau at Harry’s back as he plucks his diadem from between Harry’s fingers and places it in his hair instead.
Harry shudders. Wearing the diadem has always seemed too intimate for his liking, but Tom seems to enjoy it when he does, and…well. He denies Tom the privilege of granting his wishes – truthfully, he has none that would be worth the price he’d have to pay – and there’s little point in denying him this as well. Something so small and so harmless. Something that frees his hands to tangle in the thin, black cloth of Tom’s robes and to pull him close.
Tom doesn’t breathe. His heart doesn’t beat beneath Harry’s fingers as he slides his hands over the firm planes of Tom’s chest. His lips are cold when they press against Harry’s own.
Real genies are spirits of fire, according to the textbooks Harry has read; Tom’s only fire is his passion as he pulls Harry into his lap and pulls his robes from his shoulders.
“Have you a wish today?” he hisses as he sinks his teeth into Harry’s collarbone – right into the bite from the last time. Harry bucks against him, twists at the pleasure-pain coursing through him, and he grasps Toms’ hair to press him even closer.
Tom’s teeth are sharp. The copper-scent of blood fills Harry’s nose, and he doesn’t care in the slightest. A long-fingered hand is already making its way into his school trousers.
“No,” he breathes, and hauls Tom up from his neck so he can lick his own blood from thin lips. “Never.”
“Not yet,” Tom corrects, and Harry lets him.
Tom…isn’t lying. Not exactly. Harry knows that one day he likely will have a wish worth paying for; he knows that day will likely come sooner rather than later. There are whispers in Slytherin of Marks darkening and a lost Dark Lord, and Harry thinks he’ll pay any price to stand at that Lord’s side when the time comes. (He’d hate to prove his father wrong, after all.)
“Not yet,” he agrees, and Tom smiles wickedly into their next kiss. It doesn’t fade, even as he guides Harry back onto the floor and strips off the rest of his uniform. He looks almost mad with glee as he sinks into Harry’s body, stretching him open and making him wail with pain – the preparations Harry had made in the dorm aren’t quite enough – and pleasure, and Harry throws back his head and closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to see that expression on his face.
Tom will destroy him, one day.
But until that day he’ll writhe beneath him and take his pleasure however he can. For as long as Tom is within the diadem – for as long as Harry keeps it hidden and safe, or wears it throbbing in his hair – Tom will be his.
