𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐘 𝐇/𝐃/𝐒 𝐁𝐄𝐋𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐄 2008

Silver Tongues

Title: Silver Tongues
Author/Artist: lettered
Pairing/Threesome: Harry/Draco
Rating: R
Warnings: Power play, language . . . alliteration.
Word count: 2,150
Summary: Even after Voldemort is gone, Harry still speaks Parseltongue. Draco still obeys Parseltongue, even after Voldemort is gone.

Harry still speaks Parselmouth.

Should have slipped his tongue when Voldemort was slain, but you know what the ancients say of serpents: a snake shedding is dying and coming back again. In days past, Harry's flesh had been that skin, Voldemort's soul and voice the new body waiting within to emerge fresh from Harry, baptized in blood, birthed as nothing ever should be.

Since slivers of another's soul were inside him before, Harry sees no reason why slivers might not be still, for once he was the viper's vessel without giving his permission, taking any mission, acceptance to be handmaid of any lord. Lord Voldemort slid inside so silent and insidious that maybe he slipped back when Harry killed him again, or maybe killing him made Harry so like him that Harry's secretly been some scion of Voldemort ever since.

Service to the Dark Lord's legacy was never his desire, but it had been the Death Eaters', Bellatrix's, Malfoys', Draco's, which makes Harry want to give it to them just like it was given unto him: by force. Force is fucking, in a way: violating, victimizing, using bodies as Harry's was used, which must be why Harry is fucking Draco now: just Voldemort's vice in the form of his voice demanding what he commanded of everyone: service.

Hissed whispers in Draco's ear, a kiss to his spine, the ties that bind him to the bed, the tongue so slow and teasing from behind: "You are mine," they say, in every way. Way down deep in Harry, though, the cry—"not mine"—pushes at his veins, thrusts up his cock, pulses at his brains, making his blood hot, so that every denial is a thrust, each regret a touch, because the protest comes out hissed.

"This isn't me," Harry hisses, even as he spreads Draco further. The further Draco spreads, the more Harry hisses, "Please, I'm not this."

*

When Voldemort rose and Draco followed him, it could have been the story of the first witch and wizard, who partook of knowledge and were condemned to Muggle lands by the seduction of the snake. Snape was tempted in the same way, by knowledge and by power, and so was Lucius, and so even Salazar. So was everyone who meant anything to Draco all the way from who knows when.

So it must be with Harry: Draco under the spell of knowledge and of power, the sound of serpent speech so enticing he follows it like a snake charmed from a basket, rising. Rising beside Harry in the mornings, bruised, deliciously used, Draco wonders where that promised power is, the knowledge, for he only feels the shame of nakedness, of being known, and of desiring to be so abused.

Muddy though his memories of Voldemort are, Draco thinks it might not have been the serpent who enticed him, but Snape, Lucius, Salazar—it was they who were tempted by the snake, and they who tempted him, and so when Draco ate he ate of the family tree. Trees of knowledge do not comprise the groaning board on which he feasted as a child; that table was made of blood, the wood grains veins he followed, the roots a descent he pursued all the way down, falling, from the garden into mud.

So with Harry: Draco falls into his arms not for ambition, not to reach the knowledge or the power at the bottom of the snakepit; pitifully, something in him longs to submit, to be subdued, to sink. Sinking into Draco's body, Harry stutters, "Come with me; come screaming," and Draco knows it's not suffering he's falling for, but solitude he's running from. He follows Harry because he cannot stand to be alone in that garden. "Come with me, screaming, into Hell," Harry could say, and so would Draco go.