Secrets Meant To Keep

Secrets Meant To Keep
By Cinnamon

Harry Potter had never really been much for secrets. He wasn’t all that good at keeping them secret, which was, after all, the point of secrets. Everyone seemed to know everything about him that he may have wanted to keep a secret long before he even knew there was a secret to be kept. In his mind, that qualified as Bad Secret Keeping. Extremely bad secret keeping. He was the Anti-Secret Keeper. Secrets kept him, he didn’t keep them.

Well, his own secrets he couldn’t seem to hold onto very well. But other people’s secrets, he had kept them from time to time, important secrets, whether they be about his godfather’s whereabouts or his Quidditch Team’s Secret Move for the Gryffindor/Slytherin match. He was awfully good at keeping those sorts of secrets. The secrets that other people would dreadfully like to know. But there were other sorts of secrets as well, secrets not meant to be told, and those were the ones, the secret secrets, that he feared. After all, a secret could cause a world of hurt. Just look at the secret his aunt and uncle had kept from him: his parents were magical, killed by a dark wizard. That secret had hurt. Well, not the fact that it was a secret itself, but the knowledge that it had been kept from him, that had hurt.

And that was the same kind of secret as Harry had now. The painful, dark sort of secret that people would have given anything to know. The-Boy-Who-Lived had a secret, a shadowy, seductive, dark sort of secret, the kind that, when it was told, was told in whispers, as if the dark corners might have ears, and might care to listen. But no one had ever told this secret. Because it was Harry’s, and Harry’s alone, and he’d never tell.

Harry had a secret. Or maybe the secret had him.

A secret sort of madness had taken him, a seductive sort of madness.

And it made him rather breathless to remember, to look back on what exactly being seduced into a dark madness had felt like. Tasted like.

He shivered and turned away from the chess game taking place in front of him, missing Hermione’s sudden sharp glance, and Ron’s narrowed eyes. They’d seen it too often before. Harry’s eyes glaze over a tiny bit and go darker, as if he were thinking dark thoughts (certainly no other kind, what other kinds of thoughts would possibly keep The-Boy-Who-Lived occupied?), as if he were worrying…slipping away, into himself, or…something else. Someone else.

It wouldn’t be wrong to say they were jealous as well, though of course they’d never admit it. No one ever gets jealous of darkness inside of someone else. It was a rule somewhere. It had to be.

Jealousy was not allowed, but certainly worry was. Harry was losing his mind. It was obvious, and he thought that no one knew. But Hermione knew, and so did Ron. And they wondered if it was better this way. After all, what chance did Harry have of meeting his destiny without scars or madness or some other unfortunate side effect of being Voldemort’s Most Hated?

They’d discussed it, in the dark of night when Ron had hesitantly taken her hand, maybe even given her a chaste kiss on the lips (mouths closed, of course, because they were only sixteen and sixteen year olds, in their world, did not use their tongues for anything except eating and licking lollipops, anything else would be Frowned Upon By Their Mothers). Deciding that perhaps it was best if Harry had madness to hide behind (because when had he had anything else to hide behind, really? A closet door under the stairs, a common room that had been breached by an escaped Azkaban prisoner, an enchanted memory of an evil boy that had somehow nearly killed him when he was only twelve), Hermione and Ron had elected to let him slip gently away.

Besides. It gave them more time for their awkward, bumping, close-mouthed kisses and sometimes Ron’s hands even fumbled with her shirt (but only ever the first button and the second if he was feeling exceptionally daring).

That’s why they never told anyone that Harry had begun to talk to himself. That he began to whisper to himself in the Dark Lord’s favourite language: Parseltongue. They never knew what he was saying, of course, because Good Children Of Respectable Families Did Not Speak To Snakes. However, they were sure it was nothing more than mumblings about Potions or whispers such as ‘Ginny Weasley certainly is very pretty, isn’t she?’

And they were very, very sure that no one ever talked back to Harry. Or else they certainly would have told someone, right away.

But as it was, a bit of mumbling out loud to the shadows was nothing, really, when there is a whole Army of Darkness to be defeated. So they let him have his madness and they kept their kisses to themselves, and everything was As It Should Be.

Except… sometimes, someone answered Harry from the shadows. And more than that, sometimes someone smiled at Harry from the shadows.

And one night… one night, he had come into the crimson hangings around Harry’s bed and had…touched him. Kissed him. Even licked him, bit him, just a little bit. (People who live in shadows, especially those who had lived there for a long time, apparently did not care about what would be Frowned Upon By Their Mothers, and were not afraid of a little bit of tongue. And, oddly enough, neither was Harry. But then, he didn’t have a mother to frown.)

But Harry would never tell, and Hermione would never ask, because some secrets were meant to be kept, and Harry was very afraid that this kind of secret could destroy him if told. Sometimes, when he was alone in the darkness and breathing very heavily (whether wishing he would come again or wishing he would stay away, he really couldn’t decide, it was a sadistic sort of agony and he rather liked it), he’d be terrified. So scared that his breath would escape his lungs in short bursts (was that fear, or was that need?) and he’d wish he’d have the strength to stop.

Despite everything, Harry was a weak boy. A stupid boy.

But he’d be a weak boy forever if it meant that Tom would still come to him, in the middle of the night. They’d whisper to each other in Parseltongue and Tom would touch him gently, no one was ever the wiser. A few soft hisses in the darkness, a language as seductive and sinister as a snake coiled about to strike… Maybe his roommates’ dreams were a little darker than normal, but they never mentioned it and Harry never thought to ask.

There was that chess game though, that chess game where he almost confessed. Where fear almost broke him away from his addiction, his strange desire for the pleasure/pain of Tom Riddle’s touch. In the chess game, Harry’s queen and knight had just about backed Ron’s king into Checkmate (it would have been the first time Harry had ever won, which may have been due to the fact that Hermione’s knee kept touching Ron’s under the table and distracting him) when soft and gentle fingers stroked the side of his neck.

“Harry,” came the hiss, in the tongue he recognized, both loved and hated in some perverse mixture of what was right and so sinfully, deliciously, wrong. He stiffened, his skin tightening with anticipation, his eyes glazing over, darkening. There was that swift exchange of glances between Hermione and Ron, but Harry wasn’t aware. He turned his head the tiniest bit and Tom was right there, behind him.

No one could see him but Harry, of course. Because he was Harry’s. No one else’s. Ginny would have tried to claim him as hers, if given have the chance.

As it was, she was watching somewhat worriedly from across the common room. Maybe she recognized the quickening of his breath and the glazing of his eyes from her own time as Tom’s.

He opened his mouth to speak, to call Tom’s name, and Tom traced his lower lip. “Now, Harry,” he admonished in that same hissing, silken tone. He leaned closer, his breath brushing Harry’s ear. “You mustn’t talk.”

“I’m sick of not talking,” Harry mumbled.

Tom drew one finger down the side of his neck, feeling his pulse. “Were you waiting for me, pet?” he asked, biting lightly on Harry’s ear.

“Yes,” Harry replied, and it was almost a moan.

Hermione shifted awkwardly; maybe she felt the intent behind the sound, if not understood the word.

Laughing softly, Tom bit his neck, gently at first, and then hard, like a vampire. Harry cried out, his eyes rolling back a little bit.

“Are you alright?” Ron asked solicitously, watching Harry nervously.

“Yes,” Harry ground out, even as Tom began sucking on his neck.

Ron moved his castle; Harry struggled to keep from making a sound as Tom marked his neck. He wondered what Hermione would say if a hickey suddenly appeared on his neck, but didn’t ask, instead, fighting the irrational urge to giggle. He moved his queen and the trap was set; one more move, and Ron was dead.

“Come away with me,” Tom whispered, his hands (and how Harry loved those soft, smooth hands, with long, graceful, tapered fingers. Artist hands; gentle hands, in appearance at least. They had no lines on the palm, no heartline, no lifeline, nothing. Harry didn’t mind, he loved that they were smooth that way. Unmarked. Waiting to be filled with whatever he decided to take from Harry, who certainly had a lot to give) smoothing down Harry’s back.

“No,” Harry hissed back, struggling not to shiver. Ron moved his king, glancing up rather nervously.

Tom’s hands froze, and he leaned forward, his teeth (canines a little longer than they were supposed to be, though Harry didn’t mind) perilously close to Harry’s earlobe. “No?” he asked, so softly. A hiss of vaguely amused surprise.

“No,” Harry agreed, reaching forward. His hand was shaking.

“For the weekend,” Tom said now, flicking his tongue against Harry’s earlobe. It wasn’t a sensual thing, it was a warning. A threat.

Harry wrapped his fingers around the head of the queen. “No,” he said firmly in Parseltongue. I won’t.”

“Won’t?”

The queen started to slide. One square, two squares, three… “Won’t.”

Teeth clamped down on Harry’s earlobe and his fingers slipped, knocking the queen over as he strangled a sudden cry of pain-desire-no, pain. Ron’s eyes flew to his and narrowed.

Fear overcame good sense. Maybe madness was not good for Harry after all. “Harry,” he said firmly, because in his experience, speaking firmly always resulted in being obeyed. Or so it seemed whenever Hermione did it. “Stop it.”

Harry flicked his eyes to Ron almost dismissively; a slight and very chilling smile spreading across his lips. If Ron had been able to see, the mirror image of that snake-like smile would have stretched Tom Riddle’s lips at the same time.

“Checkmate,” Harry drawled, knocking Ron’s king over with an easy motion.

Tom’s smile turned smug and Ron’s attention was distracted as he stared at the board in shock, trying to understand how he had lost.

Tom’s hands continued down Harry’s back. “Come away with me for the weekend,” he whispered again, and this time he sounded angry, though he was smiling. “Stupid boy, you should know by now, arguing doesn’t work. Come away with me, I can show you the world. The stars.”

“Only the dark side of the world,” Harry replied, leaning back just a little.

Tom smiled a little. “The only side worth seeing,” he countered. “Besides,” he continued, biting Harry’s neck gently. “You must be punished for your defiance.”

Harry matched his smile. Because that was part of it too. Harry would fight and Tom would threaten and Harry would defy and Tom would win, and Harry would be punished… and Harry would love it. Lose himself in it. The way he never could before, when everyone and anything cared about his every move, every thought.

“Come away with me,” Tom whispered, his last offer.

Harry closed his eyes and didn’t even bother to reply. He’d go, whether it be to the dark side of the moon or into the nighttime skies when the stars were all shut away in darkness. Wherever Tom would go, he’d follow. Because some secrets were the type meant to keep.

And the others were secrets who meant to be kept.