Slick-smooth

~~~

Harry freezes at the slick-smooth syllables as they melt in the air, sounding like chocolate being poured and hardening again.

He wonders what’s been said.

Repetition. There are the words again, all legato and vowels and double consonants that slur together, sounding drunk and slow. There is no hiss in the syllables, but they’re just as dark and seductive as the serpentine parsel-drawl, and this time they resonate louder, like refracted waves in the curved inside of a violoncello.

Eyes flash, dark like the pebbles dotting Sardinian coastline, and the skin – under his hands, against his chestpalmslips, inside of him and part of him now – is smooth like rain.

The words are sultry now, vowels coated in sweat and voice punctuated like the allegro movement of the symphony, all staccato and desperate with syllables licking coolly at the pulse point in Harry’s neck.

Inside him now.

Harry moans, but not too loudly because he wants to hear. He curses in parseltongue whisper that only makes the other words sound sweeter, like they’re drifting languidly on a bed of Harry’s breath. Languid, yet so fasthardright that he can’t stand it, yet feels like he would die if the voice stops, knows he would die.

They are moving now and the green sheets underneath and the green curtains above make him feel like it must be a dream, a wonderful surreal sea sustained only by a voice that haunts the air like the dark melody of an oboe, no, a clarinet, no – Harry’s head spins because the sound is like everything and then nothing.

Silence.

Skin and muscle stills above him and Harry is filled in a moment and then he comes too, his neck arching back and a name spilling from his lips as if wrenched from his throat against his will.

“Ti voglio bene.” A whisper now.

And in that instant, there is a look in those dark eyes that makes Harry realize it\'s better that he cannot understand.

~~~