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“No,” Harry moans, batting away the Diary, those outstretched and greedy fingers, so hungry to touch Harry, to grip and scratch him, “It's not right.”
“What could be more right than this?” The Diadem hisses, hand around Harry’s throat, pushing him down, forcing him off his knees and splaying him back onto the ostentatiously sized bed, “When you are one of us? When victory is so close.”
“No,” The Ring interjects, looking up at Harry from the floor, hands planted on the edge of the Slytherin-green silk sheets Harry was being man-handled onto, “When it has been assured.”
Harry’s response is lost, lapped up by the Cup, tongue pressing to his soft palate, exploring the inside of his mouth, consuming him. There are so many hands, so many possessive fingers and treacherous tongues on his body that Harry can barely keep his track of them, much less push them all away, rebuke their ministrations.
He can’t do anything but take it all in, accept each touch and tug.
The Cup hovers over him, straddling him just above the midsection as the Ring unzips his jeans, the very same he’d been expecting to die in, back in the forest, back before he knew what it felt like to be touched by pieces of the same soul, to be led not like a lamb for the slaughter, but guided to pastures of unfathomable pleasure.
When the horcruxes touch him, there’s none of the agony that Voldemort represents, the arcs of lightning spreading from his temple, burning him from within. Harry is not alone— not like Dumbledore had told him. There are others with Tom Riddle’s soul, there are others and their touches feel like shots of liquid desire.
His veins are hot, and his breath comes fast, chest rising and falling unevenly, adrenaline pumping through him, offering a small edge to sharpen his mind on.
It’s not easy to ignore the disorientation he feels, the dizziness keeping him off kilter as the Ring licks the tip of his cock, as the Diary sucks on his fingers, rotating through all five again and again, tongue dipping into the crevices of his wand hand, sucking at the soft, thin skin with a reverence that makes Harry's shaky knees completely weak.
The Diadem increases the pressure on his throat, forcing him to be pliant, to accept it all as the Locket whispers in his ear, mouthing down the side of his neck, telling him of the cruel ending he’d escaped, telling him of the prizes that would be heaped upon him, the pleasure that awaited him.
The Ring hums from around his cock, and Harry closes his eyes, unable to focus on anything but breathing.
He’s collapsed on the bed, staring blankly at canopy, mind fogged by the amount of orgasms he’s had, by the sensation of the Ring on his cock, riding him, and it’s almost overwhelming enough to distract him from the slapping sound of footsteps, the soft slithering of Nagini.
The Diadem is shoving the Ring onto him, plunging him onto Harry’s cock, deeper and deeper, ruthless and careless with the way he treats both of them, the Diary watching eagerly, his cock out and by Harry’s lips, the Locket gently combing his fingers through Harry’s hair, still whispering, voice hoarse after being throat-fucked, when he makes eye contact with Voldemort, when Harry feels an echo of that same agony in his scar, a zing of previously felt pain.
The Cup presses a kiss to his neck before slipping off the bed, so at ease in his body, unabashed in his nudity. There’s a grace to the way he walks, the way he expectantly takes Voldemort’s slap.
“What is this treachery,” Voldemort hisses, as if he hadn’t seen the way his horcruxes had reacted to each other in the forest, as if he hadn’t been the one to apparate them all here, to take them to his bedroom.
“This is victory.”
Not even Voldemort can argue with that.