Featherlight Taction

Why should I welcome
Your domination
Why should I listen
To explanations


I'm not pretending
To make it simple
Try to be something
Experimental


You don't turn me off
I will never fail
Things I loved before,
are now for sale


Keep yourself away
Far away from me
I'll Forever stay
Your perfect enemy

No longer waiting
Remove illusions
No more complaining
Forget confusion


No more compassion
Not sentimental
I am now something
Experimental


You don't turn me off
I will never fail
Things I loved before,
are now for sale


Keep yourself away
Far away from me
I'll Forever stay
Your perfect enemy

-T.A.T.U. – Perfect Enemy

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Featherlight Taction

Chapter 10- Impetuosity

Where the hell was it?! He left it right there! At that exact spot on the table!

Voldemort growled and tossed a few unidentifiable objects onto the floor in his frenzied search. Where in the name of Merlin?

“WORMTAIL!” He bellowed down the hall, only angering more as he heard a frightened squeak and a scrambling of fat feet.

“Y-yes master?!” the plump man cried as he sped lumpily around the corner of the hall.

“Where is it?” Tom snarled, his ire rising by the second.

“Where is what, my Lord?” Wormtail quivered pathetically.

“My sandwich, you lunkheaded buffoon!” the Dark Lord shouted, looking around the hall suddenly as if the food in question would walk around the corner any moment. “Where is it you pathetic excuse for human flesh?! You worthless waste of oxygen! You slimy invertebrate in capable of using the toilet!”

Pettigrew started at this last comment. He was perfectly able to use the-

“WHERE’S MY SANDWICH?!” Voldemort’s eyes were crazy now; wild with fury.

“Harry Potter, milord!” the blob of a man responded quickly, holding his hands up vainly to ward of any damage that the Dark Lord might inflict upon him.

Voldemort stopped cold. “Why would Harry Potter take my sandwich?” he inquired, more curious than angry now.

“That’s simple, Tom.” All the sudden it was Albus Dumbledore who stood before him, blue eyes twinkling as he twined his gray beard around his index finger. “He was hungry.”
”I’m hungry too!” Tom cried in response. Was he… whining? “Why does Potter always get to have a sandwich?!”
”Because he loves his sandwiches, Tom,” Dumbledore responded airily, that blasted twinkle still glowing like mad.

Voldemort was outraged. “I will not love a sandwich! That’s preposterous!”

“And that is why you will never defeat Harry,” the old man replied severely.

“…Because I won’t love sandwiches?”

“Of course not!”

A moment of silence.

“I hate you.”

“Would you love me if I was a sandwich?”

A growl.

“…Go die.”

“I am already dead, Tom.”

“You are missing my point entirely.”

“Settle down. Have a sandwich, dear boy.”

“Harry Potter took my sandwich!”

“Must you always blame your insecurities on others?”

Tom sighed. “Am I dreaming?” he asked tiredly.

Dumbledore nodded gravely. “Indeed.”
Voldemort nodded his snake-like head and turned his red eyes back to his bedroom door. “I’m going to wake up now, if you don’t mind, old man.”
Dumbledore shook his head happily. “No, no. Not at all, my dear boy.”

“Stay out of my dreams,” the Dark Lord added suddenly; a secondary thought.

Dumbledore smiled serenely. “Of course, of course. Would you like a sandwich?”

“HARRY POTTER TOOK MY-“

--

Scarlet eyes snapped open and a low, dark growl was heard into the depths of the night.

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It was a war hands and fists. Harry grabbed a bit of clothing and tried to push, but his opponent jerked his arm away and shoved him into the wall; hard. Green eyes widened and a gasp cut through the air.

Hands were running through his hair, an ungentle caress. He grit his teeth together when his neck was bitten. He pushed his hands outward, but the firm chest wouldn’t budge. A warm cheek brushed his own and hot breath tickled his ear.

Finally, Harry got a good grip on the neck of the man’s shirt and he yanked him backwards. He overestimated his strength, however, and the man simply moved back to look at him; dark eyes hard and unblinking.

Then, with a smirk, he leaned forward once more, whispering in a cool and sadistic hiss. “Harry.”

--

Harry shot up in bed, rivers of cold sweat running down his face and chest. He practically yelped when he felt the tent in his pajama bottoms, ashamed and mortified that he’d actually gotten hard from a dream about Voldemort.

His hand jumped up to his face so quickly that he slapped himself, but he ignored this and wiped his blurry eyes, refusing to acknowledge his nether region problem any further. This was one hard-on that, out of a stubborn pride and a bewildered horror, he would absolutely not “take care of”.

Groaning, he grumbled to himself, “Kreacher in a bikini…Kreacher in a bikini…” over and over like a mantra. Soon, his erection was gone and it was replaced with an overwhelming urge to make sure Kreacher was in proper dress and then promptly gouge his eyes out afterwards.

Cursing colorfully, he shoved on his trainers and, without thinking to grab his glasses, began shuffling blindly around the room in search of his red jacket.

Eventually he found what he believed to be the jacket in question. He slipped it on and impatiently grabbed his spectacles, placing them violently and somewhat crookedly on his nose before tip-toeing out his bedroom door and into the hall.

He stopped dead when he saw Kreacher hobbling up the stairs towards him. The old elf stopped and regarded Harry’s odd expression with an annoyed interest.

Harry grimaced comically and they stared each other down silently. It was a furious battle of sanity, which Kreacher quickly ended with a grunt that sounded strangely like “half-blood brat tarnishing poor Mistress’ house with his strange ways and staring at Kreacher with those unworthy eyes. Blood traitors! Kreacher will do away with them all! No worries about the klumpets.”

It was an admittedly long grunt.

Harry shivered uncomfortably and tried not to picture bikinis as he wondered vaguely what a “klumpet” was. Perhaps Kreacher was like Luna, always making up the strangest things; all the while believing wholeheartedly that they existed. He had to wonder sometimes if Luna’s anomalous tendencies were sincere. Perhaps she simply pretended to be so blissfully oblivious to reality. Harry had to admit, the ruse was either brilliant… or exceedingly pointless.

He stepped down the stairs, thoughts blank and the house silent for a moment.

It was then that his mind decided to recall the events of his dream. Harry frowned. It’s not as if it could even really be called a “wet dream”. He didn’t actually… and nothing really happened. Well, Voldemort did bite his neck… Harry frowned in distaste mingled with frustration as he recalled the ghostly feeling of teeth and lips on his skin. The echo of the place where the Voldemort of his dream had touched him burned. He never thought Voldemort knew how to touch like that.

Wait a second! It was a dream! Voldemort probably couldn’t touch like that. It’s not as if it was the real man pressing up against him, hands running through his hair…

“Gah!” Harry let out a frustrated growl and slapped his hands to his head in an attempt to rip his own thoughts from his skull. Perhaps he should just obliviate himself. At least then he wouldn’t know why he was going crazy.

Zipping up his jacket, Harry rubbed his forehead roughly and opened the front door of Grimmauld Place, stepping into the crisp night air. He knew it was a bad idea to leave the safehouse without anyone with him—and at night on top of that!—but he couldn’t help his desire to move and clear his mind.

The fresh air hit his lungs and he let out a sigh of appreciation. Even though his friends would not like or approve of the idea, Harry needed some alone time, and as he looked up at the remarkably starry sky of the rich, midnight black above, he knew tonight was the perfect night.

Suddenly, he felt invigorated and energized. Tonight would be a good night. Yes. He needed this.

And he began to walk down the street, hands in his pockets and street lights flickering overhead. A squirrel scurried across the street and he could help but jump a little at the movement. Life had made him so skittish.

He reached back and arm and scratched the back of his neck in thought, craning his neck back to look at the sky. He hadn’t really looked at it when he’d come outside, but now that he was down the street, he felt the need to admire the crystals sparkling in the sea of black.

He smiled softly and let his arm drop back to his side, the stars filling his eyes with warmth as he gazed at them. Without any sort of warning, he began to cry. Hot, long-needed tears began to streak their way silently down his cold-flushed cheeks. As he looked with a heavy heart at the landscape above, he couldn’t help but see the eyes of Sirius Black and Albus Dumbledore shining back at him; their gazes loving and understanding.

For a very long, painful moment, Harry felt extremely alone and vulnerable. He had to resist the strong urge to simply fall to his knees and waste away. He didn’t know where it had come from, but he knew right then that it had been lingering on the surface. The immense drowning of guilt that he had felt after his mentors’ deaths had always weighed heavily upon him, but he had never taken a moment to spare a thought for the fact that they were gone.

It wasn’t the fact that they were dead which caused him to cry. No, it was the realization that he was no longer a child and that he no longer had those parental figures to take care of him and guide him. He was truly on his own to stand and keep his balance. If he fell he would have to catch himself. The thought made him feel both very powerful and very exposed. He went numb for a moment and his mind fell into blankness. He didn’t feel as sad as he felt cheated. Merlin, he felt so cheated.

He didn’t bother to wipe his face of the salty tracks on his pale face as he sat against the gate of the alleyway he’d found himself in, letting his head fall back with a resounding thump as he gazed at the street sign at the end of the alley in a soft contemplation.

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Lord Voldemort was sitting once more in his armchair, this time glaring with a vengeance at the door across the room. He had allowed himself too much sleep as of late. That must be the explanation for such a… a ridiculous dream.

He rolled his slitted, garnet eyes in annoyance and rubbed the area where he should have had a bridge of his nose.

Now, to add to the disdain he already felt, he was now once more lamenting the loss of a crucial facial feature.

He retracted his hand, discontent in feeling the inhumanity of his face. Turning a woeful and irritated glance towards his side table, he almost lost his balance where he sat as his vision was thrown, not to his side table, but a dark street side.

An emotional agony that was not his own overwhelmed him, and he all but succumbed to a heart-tearing sorrow.

Was this Potter?

What in the world had happened?

The boy’s gaze remained fixed on the worn street sign, barely readable in the unlit area. The closest street lamp was across the street, and it cast a sparse, eerie glow of flickering yellow onto the pavement. By the looks of his surroundings and height, he was sitting in an abandoned alleyway.

Voldemort frowned through the mental intrusion, finding it difficult to grasp his own thoughts as his own emotions wrestled with Harry’s. It was an odd experience. He wondered indistinctly if Harry knew he was in his mind, but his more substantial curiosities got the best of that question.

Was Potter a fool? What was he doing out alone at night? Even he wasn’t idiotic enough to go out alone unless something very unsettling had forced him to go against better judgment. Then again, maybe Harry just hadn’t been blessed with good judgment. Severus had told the Dark Lord many times of the teen’s foolhardy adventures and hotheaded decisions.

Most likely this was a spur of the moment venture.

After what seemed like hours, Voldemort fell out of Harry’s mind only to be thrown by the sudden change of surroundings. He blinked rapidly a few times and readjusted himself, shifting in her chair and leaning forward, elbows on his knees and hands clasped.

The street sign had said Atherton. Tom was fairly certain that had been the word. Yes, Atherton Circle. That was not a common street name. It would not be too difficult to find if he apparated. After all, he already knew what the surroundings looked like.

He looked down at his hands. What would be the point of going there? He had no desire to kill the boy at the moment, and he had already gotten proof that the event that took place at Hogwarts was no hoax. Why then, did he wish to go there?

With no true reason or explanation for such a trip, Riddle found himself doubting his own thoughts and intentions. What did he intend? Why not just go kill the boy now? He was alone, off-guard, and in a weak emotional state. It would be easy.

As the Dark Lord thought over this question, he came to realize that the idea of actually killing Harry was strange to him. He could not imagine the boy being dead. He had been the sole focus of his life for the past sixteen years. When Potter was finally finished, what would that leave him with?

Dumbfounded with his own inner discovery, Voldemort felt angered with himself. Was this weakness? Had he actually doubted himself in his ability to kill Harry potter? No. No, it wasn’t that. He had just realized how strange it would be. He had done nothing but concentrate on achieving the boy’s demise for so long that now it was his driving venom.

Harry, in the sick ironic way that life always plays out, was what made him the powerful Dark Lord he was. Without the young wizard, Tom was merely another villain with a vendetta for ruin.

Harry gave him purpose.

How odd.

What, then, would he achieve by going to the alleyway where Harry sat right now? Why was he even still considering this strange temptation? Was he hoping to find answers to all the questions that had drowned themselves into the deepest pools of his mind?

Was he hoping?

For what?

What did he need with hope?

Scowling, he slammed a spiny fist into the arm of his chair. He was getting sick of his own contemplations. He was beginning to feel a vulnerability that was not Harry’s this time. What was it about Harry Potter that made the Dark Lord question himself so much?

Tom knew that the answer to his questions did not reside in the alleyway of Atherton Circle, but he felt drawn to it, nonetheless.

Seeing as he had absolutely no desire to return to the monster of sleep, Voldemort stood and brushed off his robes as if they’d recently been sullied. He looked around the room, knowing that it was impossible that he was being watched, but still feeling it necessary to check.

Why did he feel like he was a teenager sneaking out of the house once his parents were asleep?

He was Lord Voldemort. He could go where he wanted when he wanted. He had no need to explain himself to anyone.

It was with that thought that he disapparated.

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Harry was dazed and restless, staring out at the street with a detached bit of emotion. He cheeks were taut from his dried tears. It felt as though the salty proof of his misery had shrunken his skin to his skull. He wanted to move, flex his cheeks and not let them feel so tight, but he couldn’t seem to muster energy for the movement, so he resigned himself to staring dully at the street sign to his right.

A small tug at the back of his mind made his eye twitch reflexively, disregarding the odd sensation for mere emotional trauma.

However, when his scar began to twinge in a small and uncomfortable burning tingle, he pulled himself away from his incoherent state and began to look around wildly. He winced and touched his fingers to his forehead. His scar only hurt like this when-

“My, my, what are you doing out here?” a cold, high voice hissed. “And so very alone?”

Harry shot to his feet, but his legs wobbled from lack of circulation and he had to grasp the fence to his left for support. His eyes caught the figure in the shadows.

This time Voldemort had not opted it necessary to change his appearance. He had come out bold and uncaring, his reptilian exterior for all the world to see; though Harry highly doubted that anyone in the world was actually at Atherton Circle to see it. That was a rather worrisome thought, really.

“Really, Harry,” Tom hissed, “You shouldn’t be out alone. Terrible things could happen…” Voldemort let the sentence drift, allowing it to hold more foreboding as he walked out from the shadows with a sneer. He didn’t really know why his was threatening Harry. It just seemed like the right thing to do. It was practical.

He confessed himself surprised and almost a little disappointed when Harry did not draw a wand and threaten to attack him. It was likely that the boy had been foolish enough to leave it back where he had come from, wherever that may be.

Harry was silent and unmoving, his gaze flowing past the Dark Lord and into the shadows, eyes narrowed.

“Once again, I come alone,” Riddle said smoothly, waving a thin hand through the air as he gestured behind him in assurance of his solidarity.

Harry gave him an odd look. “I don’t understand…” he trailed off, his eyes locked with Voldemort’s as he tried to inspect him, looking for some answer within the blood red irises. “If it is so easy for you to find me, then why have you not killed me yet?”

“Do give me some credit,” Voldemort said crossly, taking a step forward. “I am the most powerful dark wizard of my time. It is no difficult feat to find someone.” He decided against mentioning his views of Harry’s thoughts. It was possible that the teen thought the connection only went one way. No need to ruin that little surprise right now.

Harry shook his head. “Why haven’t you killed me, then?” he was earnestly perplexed, and Tom thought he saw the echo of another feeling deep within the emerald eyes, but he did not think on it. He had feared this question. It was one he had asked himself many times.

At Voldemort’s silence, Harry spoke again. “You could do it right now,” he continued, “Why do you keep coming to me without Death Eaters? Why don’t you torture me? I don’t understand why… what do you want from me?”

“Do you want to be tortured Harry?” Riddle replied smoothly, slowly drifting towards the younger wizard. Harry backed up a bit, but his eyes never left the other’s. “Do you want me to kill you?”

Harry swallowed. “Don’t toy with me,” he growled. There was that Gryffindor inside him. Tom was beginning to wonder if it was going to surface at all. “All you’ve wanted to do is kill me and hurt me. Yet now when you kidnap me you don’t try anything. Now you are here but you haven’t even taken out your wand. If you’re going to kill me then just do it. Quit dragging it out.” His glare was hard and determined. Was he egging him on?

Voldemort smirked to mask his bemusement. He had gotten close to Harry at this point; maybe only two or three feet away. The boy had been so busy interrogating him that he hadn’t realized he was being cornered by the fence.

Voldemort surveyed him for a second or two before speaking, slowly and clearly. “The time will come when it is time for you and I to face each other for a final battle,” he said softly, tracing Harry’s lighting bolt scar with his eyes. “But it is not today. It is… not yet time.”

“Oh I see,” Harry breathed, baring his teeth like an angry wolf. “You want to wait and kill me when it will benefit you the most; when it will scare the most people and give you the most control.” His eyes rose to follow the dark wizard’s as the man stepped even closer to him.

“You are quite astute, Harry,” the older wizard purred, looking down into the passionate orbs below his. “Yes, that is one reason why I wait.”

“What is the other reason?” Harry asked, pressing himself as far as he could into the wood planks of the fence as Voldemort loomed ever closer, his face just inches away from Harry’s as he spoke.

“I do not know,” he replied honestly, earning a disbelieving look from Harry as he said it. “Doubt that as you may, Harry, I have not yet discovered why I haven’t killed you yet. Perhaps it is merely that your luck is far too evasive.”

“Bullshit,” Harry retorted, starting to feel uncomfortable as the snake-like man’s breath hit his face. “You could have done it ten-thousand times-“

“Now you exaggerate,” Tom answered, “If it is assurance that you need, I assure you that I will kill you soon enough.” He smiled, but only slightly.

Harry didn’t respond.

“Have you ever dreamt of a room with a fireplace?” Tom asked suddenly.

Harry’s eyes shot up to face him in shock. “What?”

“You heard my question, Potter.”

Harry’s mouth snapped shut and his heartbeat shot skyward. That was all the answer Voldemort needed. He reached a hand up and pressed his fingertips to Harry’s cheek, an action reminiscent of the day in the graveyard. Harry tried to jerk back, but there was nowhere to go as Voldemort changed once more before his eyes. Dark eyes sought his own and Riddle’s countenance burned with an unrecognizable emotion.

“What is this spell you have put me under?” Voldemort whispered, his short, dark hair rippling in a nonexistent wind.

“I told you I didn’t-“

But lips had closed down roughly on his own and his words were muffled by mouth as arms gripped violently at his shoulders. He mind was reeling and he willed himself not to move and Tom kissed him with a harsh fervor, as if the man had not felt someone’s touch in a very long time. Harry shut his eyes tightly and clenched his fists at his sides, dying slowly under the bruising dance that Voldemort played with his lips.

Harry was overwhelmed by the longing that accompanied the touch, and he felt himself unable to resist but likewise unable to reciprocate, having no desire to do either.

A tongue flicked out softly and briefly, as though getting one last taste, before Voldemort pulled away, letting go of Harry’s shoulders roughly with a blank look as he returned back to his cursed form for yet another time. His eyes were averted, a surprisingly submissive act for the Dark Lord.

Harry was lost of his words, his mouth still tingling and sore from the war that had just been waged upon it moments ago. He let his head fall and he looked away. Let Voldemort kill him now. Though he had not taken part, he had not tried to stop him. For this Harry felt nothing but shame and embarrassment. He wished the man would just kill him then so that he did not have to feel another moment of this overwhelming emotion.

He wished Voldemort would say something—anything—but the man just stood there, his expression cold and distant as he glared pointlessly at the Atherton Circle sign.

Harry opened his mouth, his body forcing him to speak when his mind did not want to. Yet, as he offered a mere syllable, Voldemort turned on the spot and vanished, leaving Harry alone in the darkness.

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Wtfomg I just totally hit you with a kiss! Boo ya! Didn’t see that one coming, did ya? Or maybe you did.…. Either way, I feel vaguely satisfied with how this turned out.

WHERE’S MY SANDWICH?!

--

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