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Potter kneeled above Severus with a knee deep in the man's chest, undoubtedly painful. He was clawing at the potion master's arms, which were held firmly over his face, and making useless attempts at pushing the teen back. From Voldemort’s position in the doorway he resembled a starved man, with Snape as his first glance of food in days. The sight gave him pause, solely for its absurdity, the boy had never acted this unhinged even while escaping him. It was not until he spotted Severus’ wand far out of reach that he snapped into action. He was an exceptional potion master and often healer, after all, and Voldemort would not allow an asset to be bodily harmed too much.
A quick spell, cast wandlessly, was all it took to send Potter flying into the wall next to him, forcing him to face Voldemort in his slumped over position. His back had hit the stone wall with a sharp crack that went easily unnoticed by the two older men in the room. With that, Severus was quick to right himself at the removal of Potter, and faced his Lord with his head bowed. Throughout this, their guest made no sound, not even in pain; he only paused long enough to regain his footing, though he noticeably swayed. He was crouched now, seemingly ready to pounce but hesitating in the face of a stronger adversary and most likely a pounding head. The ruffled boy seemed animalistic, oddly so.
“Severus,” Voldemort sneered, clearly judging his lapse in decorum, “explain.”
“My Lord, the boy jumped me the second he woke, I was attempting to administer blood replenishing potions as you requested.” His breathing was unsteady as he spoke, but his face and posture revealed nothing of the previous struggle. The snake-like man eyed him for a second, more so to make Severus uncomfortable than anything, but his eyes soon drifted back to Potter.
“Leave.” He ordered, yet didn’t glance away from the tense boy. The sound of the door clicking shut was the only indication that the sallow man had followed his instructions. In the silence, the two enemies stared at each other, and it struck Voldemort then how different the boy was.
He’d of course expected as much, with the knowledge of his unwilling stay in the depths of the Ministry, but what really pierced Voldemort were his eyes. Oh, how he would miss those striking green, avada eyes, and the fierceness within them. But these eyes – though far simpler – he knew, would embed themselves into his head just the same. Unlike his iconic, hard green, that hinted at his experience with the killing curse, the new inky black ones screamed his experience with death itself. There were no whites behind those eye lids, just a pit of swirling black, somewhat glassy, yet they seemed to draw him in more than his old ones. It was like a black hole, sucking him toward death. Despite this comparison, he felt none of the usual fear that he associated with the call of death against him; perhaps it was just the effect Potter had on people.
Voldemort was so enraptured he hadn’t noticed the boy inching closer; in fact, had he too taken a few steps himself? Though still a good distance across the room, the few steps he’d taken enlightened him to the rest of Potter's other anomaly’s. His deathly pale skin, and bulging veins stained ebony caught his gaze first, but his salivating mouth brought out the scholar in him.
He very well knew most of the teen's condition, as he’d read the logs dedicated to studying him, but this eerie hunger was not something covered. It was even more fascinating to discover that he could not see the back of the boy's mouth, despite its gaping; really, most of what was behind his teeth seemed shrouded in a murky shadow.
Voldemort did not know if it was the alluring eyes, the oddity of his mouth, or the pull of his horcrux, but he soon realized that he had taken a few steps forward, by now it was actually more than just a few. This paired with Potter’s own advancing put the two only a couple of arms lengths away from each other. This new proximity and still silent room, finally pushed Voldemort into real action rather than just his entraptured staring. It was time to glean some information on how he might bring Potter to his side of Dumbledore’s war, he’d much prefer the boy willing.
“Harry Potter—” He’d barely gotten the name out when the boy lunged. In a single stride he had Voldemort within his grip, rough on his shoulders, and was tugging him down with surprising strength for one injured. In Voldemort’s surprise he’d only managed to grab onto the teens waist before Potter had stolen his lips.
Voldemort was easily bemused at the contact, for he was sure Harry shrill saw him as an enemy, but it quickly became clear that this was no kiss. Harry had a hand on his jaw and another at the back of his smooth head, effectively prying his mouth open. He had no real care for his thin lips, only tilting his own head to slot himself as deeply into Voldemort's mouth as he could. He was feeding, this was what he was salivating over. For Voldemort, after months of obsessing over Harry in a new way, he would take the opportunity for what it was. Harry may have no care for the intimacy of lips at the moment, but the Dark Lord would savor the feel of them regardless of how harsh the contact was. Honestly, he preferred it as such, it was far more exciting this way.
Harry did not do more than suck, seemingly at the air in his mouth, but Voldemort indulged himself in pressing his forked tongue into the un-fighting mouth, exploring it. He’d rarely attempted such acts with anyone, and if he had they were dead now. He hoped Harry would not become part of that number.
It was not so simple for long, however, for Voldemort felt a new sensation other than the warming of his gut. Harry was not sucking at nothing, he was pulling at something deep in his prey's chest, forcing it unnaturally up the other's throat and into his hungry jaws. Despite himself, a shiver ran down Voldemort’s back and straight to his crotch.
Now, Voldemort was not a fool, and so he did attempt to pull back in concern for whatever was being stolen from him, but he was also just a man, and so when both of Harry’s arms came around to claw at his shoulders and the back of his neck he allowed the hands to hold him still. He even graciously ignored the tearing of fabric under sharp nails and the stinging of thin cuts along his neck. The feeling surged up his throat not unlike air would with a heavy breath in, though it was significantly more amplified and left behind a nearly numb-like feeling. It was like fog in his mouth, as it slid over his tongue to flow eagerly into the connecting mouth. Voldemort could hear himself groaning lightly at the combination of sensations swirling about his mouth, and was smugly surprised to hear Harry echo a moan back. Though he sounded more like a parched man finding water through Voldemort’s mouth, than turned on.
The slight numbness and sluggish effect of the affair only served to warm Voldemort to a temperature far above his average cold, and he would never admit it to anyone but himself, but he was tempted to rub his crotch wantonly against Harry’s thigh, He was not so uncouth, however. Instead, he feasted once more on the other's mouth, similar and yet completely opposite to how Harry took from him.
By now, Voldemort felt he could have lived his whole life eating only from Harry, since he needed no other sustenance. He would find every meal on Harry’s plush lips, and dessert on his tongue sipping at the sweet saliva there. Really, it was more like a drug; one that Voldemort knew he was already addicted to. Sadly the boy was all too quickly sated, and the flow ebbed into nothing before he pulled away. Though Harry had removed his hands, Voldemort did not follow the example and instead his hands tightened on the slim waist. Voldemort opened his eyes then, only realizing he had closed them when Harry’s lips left his own.
Once more under the piercing gaze, Harry’s eyes looked clearer, no longer glassy, and he was much more like his usual self. Though far more embarrassed than he’d ever seen him. They both breathed heavily with Harry absentmindedly whipping blood from beneath his jagged nails. It was in this non-silence that Voldemort’s cleared head realized what had just happened. Of course, he’d gotten a good taste of the man held in his firm grip, but Harry had gotten a taste of his life force.
He’d read what little was in the documents – useless ministry workers couldn’t figure out much from the subject right in front of them – and the dementor attack had somehow given Harry a new magic similar to that of the deathly beasts. He could not take souls with a kiss, but he could take life force and even drain a person completely. This life force, within humans, had become Harry’s only source of sustenance, and by Voldemort’s guess, he’d stolen at least two centuries worth of life from him, a hearty meal. He should very well be dead. Harry came to the same conclusion soon after him.
“You aren’t dead.” A whispered thing, not nearly a real question. Voldemort answered him anyway.
“No.”
“Why not!?” He was louder now, as he tried to pull out of the tight hands. Harry was disturbed by his still beating heart, but Voldemort knew he had not taken so much with killing him in mind. No, Harry had been too hungry for that.
One of his ensnaring hands wandered up to Harry’s cheek, fingers wandering to brush his lightning bolt scar lightly as he replied silkily.
“I am immortal, my soul.” He smirked at the widening of those deep sable eyes. “You may feast upon my mouth as often as you like, for I will never run out of life force to give you.” He pulled Harry against him, showing off the hardness between his legs. Harry gaped up at him, audibly gasping at Voldemort’s peculiar behaviour. “As long as such endeavors continue to be so enticing.”
Their breaths tangled in each other's nearness, and Harry blushed a bright red only highlighted by his white skin.