The world was a whirl of green and silver, and he was clinging onto the only stationary object he could touch. Solid and hot under him, inside of him, all around him. Dark hair that tousled finely against his cheek, luminously pale skin that flushed a peach color, cold hands that shoved him up against the stone wall.

His head lolled back and his eyes squeezed shut, the dueling fires of pleasure and pain ripping through his veins, both too fast to grab and hold onto and savor. Hands, those delicately strong hands, were on his face then, slapping him, one cheek and then the other, light, sharp stings that sent tears prickling in his eyes.

"Look at me. Stop closing your eyes," the older boy whispered, his low voice husky and dangerous. Harry's eyelids flew open like window shades pulled taut, his bright green irises burning into dark lacquered ones so brown they were black. He sucked his lower lip into his mouth, chewing on it as Tom thrust again, a sharp in and out breaking him in two, shattering his heart into a thousand and one pieces that only Tom could put back together.

He was visible, worryingly opaque in the glowing half-light, and when he pressed his moist forehead against Harry's, it was warm and strong and everything he wasn't supposed to be. Not that Harry noticed, no, he was groaning, muttering something unintelligible as he struggled to keep his eyes open, losing himself in the veiled mysteries that loomed in his lover's eyes.

Tom stopped moving for a moment, holding the second-year's hips in place, completely buried inside of him. Harry's eyes widened, and he made a choking, high-pitched noise, his voice cracking as his hands scrabbled at the older boy's strong arms. Tom stared into his eyes for a moment, and the mixture of trust, fear and lust that danced in them. He was so young... so young and so lovely, a childish perfection that was so sweet and untainted he could taste it on his skin. He moved again then, harshly sending Harry Potter sliding up and down on him, breathing in his sigh of relief and nervousness.

It didn't last long, not as the memory's hands slid up over his chest, across the plane that rose and fell sporadically, up around his neck and to his mouth. His long fingers paused for a moment and then plundered past those lips, shoving over his ridge of perfect white baby teeth, into the hot expanse of tongue and cheek. His fingers slid in and out as Harry went slack-jawed, letting Tom fuck his mouth as he possessed his body, his own mouth nipping up Harry's chin and cheek and ear, as though he really were trying to devour him.

"You're mine, Potter," he hissed, and Harry knew in some dark part of his mind that he was using their secret language, the one between them and the other things that existed in this cold state. "Mine. You were born to be mine, you've been mine ever since I gave you that scar, and you'll be mine until you die, Potter, until you die in my arms."

Harry might have whimpered at that, but whatever noise he made was lost in the flurry of Tom's fingers, flickering over taste buds and enamel and straining to reach his throat, reach the place he thrust to in misty nights. His eyes flashed green -- his mum's eyes -- and he sucked on those digits, his own hand snaking up to grasp his counterpart's wrist to let him lick, suck, glide, bite with greater ease.

Tom licked his lips, sliding his tongue out over the crimson expanses, and locked eyes with the boy once again. And then something happened, and Harry shivered, the nerve endings of his body quaking and making him jump slightly, and it was Tom's eyes that glazed over with pleasure at the sudden internal spasm. He wrenched his fingers from the boy's mouth and lifted him, lifted him from where he was perched on his lap like a child seeking comfort and laid him out on the dusty floor, his hands holding his frail wrists down as he fucked him.

Harry turned his head to the side, limbs ineffectually trying to wrench out from under the grasp.

"Please, Tom, that's -- it's not --" he gasped, writhing prettily under the pressure, under the suddenly far rougher trusts and touches and sensations. Tom smiled down at him, smiled against the twelve-year-old's delicate little mouth.

"Does it hurt, Harry?" he murmured, nuzzling against the thin neck as he lazily moved over him, taking advantage of his new angle. "Does it ache? Does it sting? Or does it just burn?"

"I can't..." tears like cobwebs formed on his eyelashes, and Tom kissed him, reminding him with his firm tongue that this was nothing worse than he had taken before, and he would take far worse before they were through.

"You can," he whispered, eyes glinting in the faint greenish glow that illuminated them. He bit down on Harry's lower lip then, tasting the biting salty flavor of blood spilling over his tongue in waves. He came then, as though he was merely pouring back into Harry was he what he was taking out of him, and his head tossed in delirious passion.

The moment Harry was without that pressure on him, the moment Tom let go, he was falling, tumbling and tumbling. Even when he landed on the cold stone floor of the dungeon in his time, he hadn't really stopped. Some part of his soul was always falling when Tom wasn't there to put it in its place. He was like the piece of a puzzle that Harry was always missing. And that's why he understood if it was difficult for Tom to put him back together.

End.