Featherlight Taction
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Harry Potter › Slash - Male/Male › Harry/Voldemort
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
17
Views:
8,402
Reviews:
14
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Harry Potter › Slash - Male/Male › Harry/Voldemort
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
17
Views:
8,402
Reviews:
14
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Avoidance
Ckret2: I’m gonna quote this review so y’all know what I’m answering.
“By the way, I'm just wondering, how much of this do you have planned out?
Rough outline, know every detail, or you're making it up on your way from
point A to point B? I'm not trying to worm any spoilers out of you or anything
(I hate spoilers, hee), I'm just curious about your creation process,
especially since you're putting out chapters so quickly.”
To answer that question:
A lot of people have asked me this, especially when I was writing ‘A Potion’ way back when. When I write fics, I immediately start out in the fic knowing exactly how I want it to end and the major plot points in between. However, I don’t fill in the details. I hate planning out things more than is necessary or the plot will end up becoming bland and won’t have any flow to it. So, every major event is already decided, but the stuff that happens in between them and even the way they happen are not planned until the moment I write them.
I don’t write a chapter until I feel inspiration for it. For some reason, I’ve just been hit with a crapload of inspiration for this fic, apparently, so that’s why I’ve been uploading chapters so quickly.
I always love hearing what people want to see in the fic, and if it fits with the main plot, I’ll often try to sate those desires, so you can always feel free to make suggestions. Maybe your suggestion will inspire the next chapter!
I have a strange feeling that this fic is going to be really frickin long compared to my normal writing style. I mean, this already has more words than my longest complete fic of 13 chapters!
A/N: By the by, guys, I’d like to correct an impression that come of you are getting. This is NOT going to be a Dark!Harry story. He might have some dark contemplations and do some dark things, but this isn’t an anti-boywholived story. Yes, I’ve had him use some unforgivables in dire situations, but you’ll see that they affect him and wear on him terribly, and he is, through all the angst and darkness, the hero.
FTftFTftFTftFTftFTftFT FTftFTftFTftFTftFTftFT FTftFTftFTftFTftFTftFTFTftFTftFT
Wake up, medicate, again
Ever after is a friend
But you and I we get so high
We never quite came down
Ever after again
What could be more beautiful than you
and I falling from grace
All the things we'll never know
so beautiful they're slipping away
Light my past on fire
Spell it right in black and white
A coward's here for hire
What could be more beautiful than you
and I falling from grace
All the things we'll never know
so beautiful they're slipping away
It's beautiful, slipping away
It's time to pack up and vacate
I'm so fed up of closing up
And running from myself
What could be more beautiful than you
and I falling from grace
All the things we'll never know
so beautiful they're slipping away
Wake up, medicate, again
'Cause ever after is my friend
-Thornley - Beautiful
FTftFTftFTftFTftFTftFT FTftFTftFTftFTftFTftFT FTftFTftFTftFTftFTftFTFTftFTftFT
Featherlight Taction
Chapter- Avoidance
It was almost two weeks before Harry, Ron, and Hermione found it in themselves to leave the Burrow. They’d had two funerals in two weeks and the forced happiness that had once been there was no longer present. All that was left was a sober tenderness and understanding empathy that drifted in and out of the windows and onto the snow-covered hills.
Moody had been unable to stand the sadness, so he’d left as soon as Arthur’s funeral was finished, occupying himself with unofficially helping out Aurors in Death Eater captures. Remus had forced himself to stay for Harry’s sake, but his deathly silence had been more of a hindrance than a help to the disoriented teen.
Harry and his two companions had spent most of their time in Ron’s room, coming down only to eat and assure the others that they were still alive. They tried as best they could to plan on their next move without remembering the deaths that had so closely preceded their journey. They were to go to Hermione’s parents’ cabin out in the mountains. From there they could figure out how to get back into the Malfoy manor and find any horcruxes that might be hidden there.
They had decided also, to plan it more thoroughly this time, and not to ask for help.
“Tonight’s the night,” Harry said softly, looking out of the window beside his bed. Ron nodded and Hermione sighed.
“I’ve almost finished preparations,” Hermione stated, gesturing towards Harry’s rucksack. “I’ve shrunk all of our potions and books and other supplies in there. It should last us for quite a while.”
“What would we do without you, ‘Mione?” Ron inquired fondly, staring up at the ceiling of his room.
The young witch blushed. “Don’t be silly, Ronald. It’s all quite simple.”
Ron snorted. “To you, maybe.”
This is how the conversations had been as of late. Ever since Harry had returned from his capture by the hands of Bellatrix Lestrange, the trio had restricted their conversation to planning and banter; nothing more. Harry lamented the loss of deeper conversation, but he knew if he tried to instigate any sort of discussion, he would be immediately drilled with thousands of questions.
Besides, what was he supposed to tell them? How could he tell them that… that he had used the Avada Kedavra. That he had killed someone… How could he tell them that?
He rubbed his eyes behind his glasses. Compared to the other tidbit of information, his killing Bellatrix seemed so rudimentary and unimportant. Twice now, Voldemort had kissed him. Both times Harry had stood by and done nothing. He had let him.
That would be even harder to tell Ron and Hermione than the fact that he had killed someone. He scoffed internally. The realization that he thought more on the kiss than the fact that a death had come by his own hands hit him like a slug in the gut.
Was he really that horrible of a person? Sure, Bellatrix more than had it coming, but still… she was still human. Why was his contact with Tom Riddle weighing so much more heavily on his mind? To think about it too strongly would be to admit that it had affected him. It would admit that he had reacted with more than revulsion.
If he thought about it too strongly, he would realize that he was reliving the moment in the mansion over and over again in his dreams. That was a realization he didn’t want to come to. This whole thing was something he didn’t understand, and he didn’t want to understand. If he admitted that, in a way, he hadn’t been entirely repulsed by Voldemort’s actions, than what did that mean? Did that make him a terrible person? Did that make him disgusting? Did that mean…
Harry stood suddenly, forcing down his thoughts with a fierce mentality. “We’ve only got a few more hours,” he stated, not looking at his friends.
He heard them shift as they nodded and he tried to settle the turmoil of emotions within his chest.
He was sick of thinking. It only led to pain.
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Draco sat by the lakeside of his manor, staring over the still water in silence. His grey eyes blinked slowly, and the reflections of the green water shone in them and he lost himself in his thoughts. His hand gripped his left forearm tightly and his small mouth was twisted into somewhat of a weak frown.
His left eye was still a bit black and the cuts on his face and chest were still healing. The Dark Lord had been furious that day when Harry Potter had broken into the manor. He had blamed the young Malfoy, and as such, he had tortured him for hours on end. He hadn’t even been merciful enough to use Crucio. No, Voldemort had felt a need for severing charms and slow, agonizing torments.
The strange things was, though, that once the monster had finished his anguished inflictions and Draco’s mother sobbed in the corner of the room as his father held her and watched on miserably, he had healed most of Draco’s wounds. As the pale blonde had lain there, shivering and sputtering up blood, the reptilian Lord had walked over to him slowly and raised his wand. Draco cringed, fearing more retaliation, but instead of cruel pain, he felt the cool soothing of healing charms as they sew him back together. No longer were his wounds gushing vengefully, threatening his death. They were just slight lacerations now, and as Draco sat out on the grass a few weeks later, he found that they didn’t hurt anymore.
The only thing that really hurt was the memory. But, mercifully, the memory of pain is never as bad as the moment you feel it. At least… that was how it worked for physical pain. Other pains were a different story.
Draco let himself fall back into the grass with a thump and he thought back to the day Severus Snape had come to visit them a while back.
“I’m here to talk about something regarding the lion,” the man had said.
Lucius had immediately put a silencing charm on the room afterwards, but Draco didn’t need to hear any more. He wasn’t stupid and it was easy for him to make the connection. Lion… Gryffindor… Potter.
He stared into the slowly moving clouds and sighed. He hadn’t seen Potter in almost a year now. The last he remembered was fighting with him at school about… something. He couldn’t remember what. Merlin, their fights had been so ridiculous. He smiled, not fondly, but reminiscently, and he thought back to the numerous squabbles he and Harry had gotten into over the years.
They were both so proud that they were bound to fight. It was only natural for the two competitive spirits to clash with one another, but through all the heated insults and assurances of hate, Draco didn’t really hate Potter.
No, he didn’t like him either, not in the least; but he did respect him, somewhat. And he also silently relied on the other teen. Into the darkness of lonely nights and frightening times when he faced the Dark Lord himself, Draco hoped with the little strength that remained within him that Harry Potter would win this war and defeat Voldemort once and for all.
It was a hope that echoed through everyone these days, dark and light alike. And thought some would not admit this wish, it was still there being considered, along with its formidable and unforgettable question.
What would it be like to no longer live in fear?
And… can Harry Potter truly be the one to bring upon the world that freedom?
If Potter really was the one to do that; if what the whispered secrets and rumors said were true… then Draco wanted to make sure that Potter succeeded. He knew that now, with the Dark Lord’s clutches so firmly upon him, he could do very little to aid the boy. Though Draco did not want to admit it, he was virtually powerless now; left to follow his father and mother as they shielded him as much as they could from the wrath of their master.
All he could at the moment was wait and play his part. All he could do now was stare at the clouds until an opportunity arose.
So that’s what he did. And for hours upon endless hours, Draco stared at the sky… hoping.
FTftFTftFTftFTftFTftFT FTftFTftFTftFTftFTftFT FTftFTftFTftFTftFTftFTFTftFTftFT
Quietly, the trio crept out onto the yard of the Burrow. Night had fallen and they’d waited until the occupants of the house had fallen into a restless sleep.
Harry looked out over the hills and up at the starry sky before turning back to glance at the Weasleys’ house once more. His eyes met with ones that mirrored the moon. It was Remus.
The werewolf was eyeing him calmly, not the least bit surprised as a pensive sadness overtook his ragged features. A muggle cigarette was pinched between the fingers of his right hand, and he took a drag, his eyes never leaving Harry’s.
Ron and Hermione had noticed him too, and they stood behind Harry, bowing their heads in embarrassment for sneaking out.
“I didn’t know you smoked.” Harry couldn’t think of anything else to say, so that was what came out of his mouth.
Remus didn’t respond, but he smiled softly, still looking at the trio with a despondent expression that contrasted with his smile harshly.
“I…we…” Harry trailed off and looked away, his eyes finding the cursed spot where Arthur Weasley had fallen. His heart jerked in his chest and he felt immeasurably guilty again.
“I know,” Remus said, shocking Harry from his guilt. He’d almost expected the man not to speak. Lupin rose from his chair and put out the cigarette on a plate. One hand in his sweater pocket, he walked over to Harry and his friends, smiling, in turn, at each one of them before resting his gaze on the miserable, dark-haired one in the middle.
His eyes turned towards the skies for a minute, and if looking for all the friends he had lost, and then he reached out and pulled Harry into a hug. Leaning down, he whispered into the messy locks, “Be safe.”
Harry returned the hug, burying his head into the older man’s chest for a second before pulling away and forcing his heartbeat to slow. “Goodbye,” he choked out quiescently, his eyes closed.
“We’ll meet again, I promise,” Remus replied, warmth shining through his eyes.
Harry smiled, in earnest, and looked at his old teacher and friend for a deep breath before the three of them waved and turned away and linked arms to disapparate.
They appeared where Hermione had told them they would. It was a beautiful forest, with tall, lean trees and fanning red ferns and whispers of fog. To their right was a large stone house, windows dark and chimney empty of smoke.
“This is it,” Hermione said, trying to force a happy smile. The two boys smiled back and grabbed either one of her hands.
“We’ll be fine,” Harry said, looking back at the cabin.
“Yeah,” Ron agreed, doing the same.
“Yeah,” Hermione nodded, her hands clasping tightly around her companions’ hands. “I know.”
FTftFTftFTftFTftFTftFT FTftFTftFTftFTftFTftFT FTftFTftFTftFTftFTftFTFTftFTftFT
Lucius Malfoy watched his son from the window of the house kitchen. The boy was sitting by the lake, staring up into the heavens. Lucius wished to join him, momentarily, but he knew that he would have to save that for another day—one far from this one.
He looked down at his untouched firewhiskey and shook his head, picking up the glass and pouring it back into the bottle. He needed to have all of his senses about him today. He was to be making a trip to the Ministry and speak to his contacts. There was much to be planned.
Severus was currently searching for his Order of the Phoenix ties, so he would be out of contact for a few days. Hopefully the Dark Lord would not notice the short absence. Severus had likely come up with a good excuse. He always did.
Lucius ran a slim finger along the bottom of his glass, gathering up the spare whiskey. Placing the finger to his lips, his licked of the small bit of alcohol and savored the taste. It wasn’t one he particularly liked, but it reminded him of the calmness that was often associated with the drink. He considered having a drink again, but he quickly shook it off.
He had a rebellion to ensue. Now was not the time for whiskey.
Now was the time for revolution.
Save the whiskey for later.
FTftFTftFTftFTftFTftFT FTftFTftFTftFTftFTftFT FTftFTftFTftFTftFTftFTFTftFTftFT
They were a pile of flesh and clothes now. Tossing and turning over the floor, their mouths ravaged one another’s as they drank each other like wine.
Harry let out a gasp as Tom slid his fingers up the boy’s chest. He slid his hands through the older man’s hair, twisting them into his dark locks and opening half-lidded emerald eyes.
Tom felt every inch of Harry’s chest with his lips, savoring the feel of the soft flesh against his own as the young wizard writhed against him.
“Harry…” he moaned.
--
Tom Riddle forced his red eyes open and stared at the stone ceiling above him, his thin hands gripping his sheets tightly and sweat traveling down his snake-like face. He let out a low, frustrated groan and sat up, flicking his hands so the torches on the walls would ignite.
Wiping the sweat from his brow, he pulled his robes from the side table and threw them on. He’d been having dreams like these ever since the night at the Lestrange estate. He cursed himself both aloud and mentally for the slipup. How could he have lost control like that?!
He plastered a dark scowl onto his face, his vertically slit eyes narrowing as he swept out of his quarters. To have kissed Harry once was ridiculous enough, but twice? He had gone too far; and he had enjoyed it far too much.
He had to come to terms with the fact that yes, he held a certain attraction towards Potter. Why? He did not know. Never before would he have even considered such a thing. It was asinine!
But now it wasn’t so preposterous as it should be. Perhaps the attraction had arisen from that day in the courtyard. No… it had been after that. When, he could not place his finger on it… but it had begun same as the intrigue of being able to feel his own flesh. When Harry had given that to him, however unwillingly he had done so, something had awoken underneath the jade flesh that held the Dark Lord where he was.
That something was a deep longing and passion that he had put away in the shadows long ago. It was an emotion that he did not need nor desire, and it infuriated him that he was succumbing to it every time the boy was near now.
How weak must he be to lose his senses as he did! It was pathetic! He whirled around and slammed his fist into the stone wall. His skin ripped under the force, but this only angered him more, and he let his fist stay there as he rest his forehead against the unforgiving, cold stone. His teeth were bared at the floor and his breath came in short, deep heaves.
“Potter,” he growled.
What is this spell you have put me under?
That was what he had asked the first time he had kissed him. It was true. He was under some sort of spell. Voldemort was no longer himself, and he knew it. How had one boy so easily resurfaced the regret that the Dark Lord harbored for his actions? How is it that Harry could so quickly and unintentionally bring back the passion that Tom had once had? He wasn’t meant to have these feelings! He wasn’t meant to have any feelings!
Voldemort let his hand fall to his side. His knuckles were bleeding, but he ignored them as his forehead held him against the wall. “What…spell have you put me under?” he whispered throatily. “What have you done to me?”
“Master?” A hesitant voice.
The Dark Lord pushed himself from the wall and straightened, brushing off his robes before turning to the intruder on his thoughts. “Yes, Wormtail?”
Pettigrew half bowed and half groveled as he came forward. “I have been informed that Lestrange’s body was disposed of, as you ordered,” he said, sniveling, as usual. “And Snape,” he choked on the name, looking disgusted. “Has asked me to tell you that he had gotten a possible lead on “your situation” and will be gone for a few days.” At the sudden icy glare that surfaced on the Dark Lord’s eyes, Wormtail let out a little cry and shrunk back, thinking he had said something wrong.
“Good,” Voldemort said flatly, walking past the cowering man, who looked up in a mixture of surprise and relief. He spotted Voldemort’s bleeding knuckles.
“Master, your hand-”
“I can take care of it,” Tom dismissed him sharply, not looking back as he rounded the corner and set off towards his library.
If Severus had truly found a lead, then maybe he could soon get rid of this… affliction and no longer need to worry about it. That way he could focus on victory and power. That was what he truly needed to concentrate on: Success. That was the only thing that was important. Everything else he would ignore.
It was as simple as that.
FTftFTftFTftFTftFTftFT FTftFTftFTftFTftFTftFT FTftFTftFTftFTftFTftFTFTftFTftFT
They were on the floor, their mouths battling with each other in a heated kiss. Harry reached up and ran his hands through the Riddle’s hair, gasping as the older wizard ran slim hands up his chest.
Lips were skimming his abdomen, leaving burning trails in their wake. Harry moaned and twisted up against the body against him just as Tom groaned.
“Harry…”
--
Harry woke up violently, shooting up in bed and panting furiously. His sheets were twisted around his legs so tightly it was as if he’d been recently mummified, and he mentally slapped himself when he realized that this time he had woken up too late. His boxers clung to his skin from the evidence of his dream.
His eyes shot to the window. He could barely see out into the forest. It was still dark. Thankfully there had been enough rooms in the house for the trio to sleep separately, so at least they hadn’t heard him. He could be grateful for that much.
It was only at this point that he noticed the burning throb of his scar. No… that wasn’t possible.
Have you ever dreamt of a room with a fireplace?
Had that dream not been his own? Had it been shared?
Harry shivered, the sweat trailing down his bare back catching the draft of the winter cold. This had only been the second dream like this that he’d had about Voldemort, but he felt like he’d had hundreds of them. He wrapped his arms around himself and tried desperately not to recall the burning kisses of Tom’s mouth against his skin.
His hands reached up and fisted into his hair, pulling at it desperately. Why? What the hell was happening to him?! So many questions raced through his mind that he felt overwhelmed and angry.
He disentangled himself from his sheets and threw himself off of the bed, tiptoeing over to the door and peering out of it to make sure he wasn’t spotted in such a state. Ron and Hermione’s doors were both closed. He sighed and rushed over to the bathroom, closing and locking the door behind him and turning on the faucet to the shower.
As he sat down on the toilet and waited for the room to fill up with steam, his mind drifted back, not to the dream, but to the look on Tom Riddle’s face that night two weeks ago. It had been so emotional and… passionate.
Was Voldemort even capable of such emotions?
And if he was, why had they surfaced because of Harry?
What was this tug in his chest; this dizziness in his mind? Harry clutched at his shoulders and shut his eyes tightly as the steam from the shower began to stint his breathing.
Finally, he stood and peeled of his shorts, tossing them aside and stepping into the shower. Maybe the hot water would wash it all away—all his fears and confusions and thoughts.
He let the water fall onto his face in torrents, washing down his skin and pushing off all the dirt and remnants of his dream; but it didn’t push away his thoughts. Nothing could.
And no matter how hard he tried, he could not remove the image of Lord Voldemort, staring down the hall and refusing to look at him, red eyes set with as much confusion as his own.
FTftFTftFTftFTftFTftFT FTftFTftFTftFTftFTftFT FTftFTftFTftFTftFTftFTFTftFTftFT
NYACK! –flies away-
--
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The address is: wizardportus(dot)co(dot)nr
“By the way, I'm just wondering, how much of this do you have planned out?
Rough outline, know every detail, or you're making it up on your way from
point A to point B? I'm not trying to worm any spoilers out of you or anything
(I hate spoilers, hee), I'm just curious about your creation process,
especially since you're putting out chapters so quickly.”
To answer that question:
A lot of people have asked me this, especially when I was writing ‘A Potion’ way back when. When I write fics, I immediately start out in the fic knowing exactly how I want it to end and the major plot points in between. However, I don’t fill in the details. I hate planning out things more than is necessary or the plot will end up becoming bland and won’t have any flow to it. So, every major event is already decided, but the stuff that happens in between them and even the way they happen are not planned until the moment I write them.
I don’t write a chapter until I feel inspiration for it. For some reason, I’ve just been hit with a crapload of inspiration for this fic, apparently, so that’s why I’ve been uploading chapters so quickly.
I always love hearing what people want to see in the fic, and if it fits with the main plot, I’ll often try to sate those desires, so you can always feel free to make suggestions. Maybe your suggestion will inspire the next chapter!
I have a strange feeling that this fic is going to be really frickin long compared to my normal writing style. I mean, this already has more words than my longest complete fic of 13 chapters!
A/N: By the by, guys, I’d like to correct an impression that come of you are getting. This is NOT going to be a Dark!Harry story. He might have some dark contemplations and do some dark things, but this isn’t an anti-boywholived story. Yes, I’ve had him use some unforgivables in dire situations, but you’ll see that they affect him and wear on him terribly, and he is, through all the angst and darkness, the hero.
FTftFTftFTftFTftFTftFT FTftFTftFTftFTftFTftFT FTftFTftFTftFTftFTftFTFTftFTftFT
Wake up, medicate, again
Ever after is a friend
But you and I we get so high
We never quite came down
Ever after again
What could be more beautiful than you
and I falling from grace
All the things we'll never know
so beautiful they're slipping away
Light my past on fire
Spell it right in black and white
A coward's here for hire
What could be more beautiful than you
and I falling from grace
All the things we'll never know
so beautiful they're slipping away
It's beautiful, slipping away
It's time to pack up and vacate
I'm so fed up of closing up
And running from myself
What could be more beautiful than you
and I falling from grace
All the things we'll never know
so beautiful they're slipping away
Wake up, medicate, again
'Cause ever after is my friend
-Thornley - Beautiful
FTftFTftFTftFTftFTftFT FTftFTftFTftFTftFTftFT FTftFTftFTftFTftFTftFTFTftFTftFT
Featherlight Taction
Chapter- Avoidance
It was almost two weeks before Harry, Ron, and Hermione found it in themselves to leave the Burrow. They’d had two funerals in two weeks and the forced happiness that had once been there was no longer present. All that was left was a sober tenderness and understanding empathy that drifted in and out of the windows and onto the snow-covered hills.
Moody had been unable to stand the sadness, so he’d left as soon as Arthur’s funeral was finished, occupying himself with unofficially helping out Aurors in Death Eater captures. Remus had forced himself to stay for Harry’s sake, but his deathly silence had been more of a hindrance than a help to the disoriented teen.
Harry and his two companions had spent most of their time in Ron’s room, coming down only to eat and assure the others that they were still alive. They tried as best they could to plan on their next move without remembering the deaths that had so closely preceded their journey. They were to go to Hermione’s parents’ cabin out in the mountains. From there they could figure out how to get back into the Malfoy manor and find any horcruxes that might be hidden there.
They had decided also, to plan it more thoroughly this time, and not to ask for help.
“Tonight’s the night,” Harry said softly, looking out of the window beside his bed. Ron nodded and Hermione sighed.
“I’ve almost finished preparations,” Hermione stated, gesturing towards Harry’s rucksack. “I’ve shrunk all of our potions and books and other supplies in there. It should last us for quite a while.”
“What would we do without you, ‘Mione?” Ron inquired fondly, staring up at the ceiling of his room.
The young witch blushed. “Don’t be silly, Ronald. It’s all quite simple.”
Ron snorted. “To you, maybe.”
This is how the conversations had been as of late. Ever since Harry had returned from his capture by the hands of Bellatrix Lestrange, the trio had restricted their conversation to planning and banter; nothing more. Harry lamented the loss of deeper conversation, but he knew if he tried to instigate any sort of discussion, he would be immediately drilled with thousands of questions.
Besides, what was he supposed to tell them? How could he tell them that… that he had used the Avada Kedavra. That he had killed someone… How could he tell them that?
He rubbed his eyes behind his glasses. Compared to the other tidbit of information, his killing Bellatrix seemed so rudimentary and unimportant. Twice now, Voldemort had kissed him. Both times Harry had stood by and done nothing. He had let him.
That would be even harder to tell Ron and Hermione than the fact that he had killed someone. He scoffed internally. The realization that he thought more on the kiss than the fact that a death had come by his own hands hit him like a slug in the gut.
Was he really that horrible of a person? Sure, Bellatrix more than had it coming, but still… she was still human. Why was his contact with Tom Riddle weighing so much more heavily on his mind? To think about it too strongly would be to admit that it had affected him. It would admit that he had reacted with more than revulsion.
If he thought about it too strongly, he would realize that he was reliving the moment in the mansion over and over again in his dreams. That was a realization he didn’t want to come to. This whole thing was something he didn’t understand, and he didn’t want to understand. If he admitted that, in a way, he hadn’t been entirely repulsed by Voldemort’s actions, than what did that mean? Did that make him a terrible person? Did that make him disgusting? Did that mean…
Harry stood suddenly, forcing down his thoughts with a fierce mentality. “We’ve only got a few more hours,” he stated, not looking at his friends.
He heard them shift as they nodded and he tried to settle the turmoil of emotions within his chest.
He was sick of thinking. It only led to pain.
FTftFTftFTftFTftFTftFT FTftFTftFTftFTftFTftFT FTftFTftFTftFTftFTftFTFTftFTftFT
Draco sat by the lakeside of his manor, staring over the still water in silence. His grey eyes blinked slowly, and the reflections of the green water shone in them and he lost himself in his thoughts. His hand gripped his left forearm tightly and his small mouth was twisted into somewhat of a weak frown.
His left eye was still a bit black and the cuts on his face and chest were still healing. The Dark Lord had been furious that day when Harry Potter had broken into the manor. He had blamed the young Malfoy, and as such, he had tortured him for hours on end. He hadn’t even been merciful enough to use Crucio. No, Voldemort had felt a need for severing charms and slow, agonizing torments.
The strange things was, though, that once the monster had finished his anguished inflictions and Draco’s mother sobbed in the corner of the room as his father held her and watched on miserably, he had healed most of Draco’s wounds. As the pale blonde had lain there, shivering and sputtering up blood, the reptilian Lord had walked over to him slowly and raised his wand. Draco cringed, fearing more retaliation, but instead of cruel pain, he felt the cool soothing of healing charms as they sew him back together. No longer were his wounds gushing vengefully, threatening his death. They were just slight lacerations now, and as Draco sat out on the grass a few weeks later, he found that they didn’t hurt anymore.
The only thing that really hurt was the memory. But, mercifully, the memory of pain is never as bad as the moment you feel it. At least… that was how it worked for physical pain. Other pains were a different story.
Draco let himself fall back into the grass with a thump and he thought back to the day Severus Snape had come to visit them a while back.
“I’m here to talk about something regarding the lion,” the man had said.
Lucius had immediately put a silencing charm on the room afterwards, but Draco didn’t need to hear any more. He wasn’t stupid and it was easy for him to make the connection. Lion… Gryffindor… Potter.
He stared into the slowly moving clouds and sighed. He hadn’t seen Potter in almost a year now. The last he remembered was fighting with him at school about… something. He couldn’t remember what. Merlin, their fights had been so ridiculous. He smiled, not fondly, but reminiscently, and he thought back to the numerous squabbles he and Harry had gotten into over the years.
They were both so proud that they were bound to fight. It was only natural for the two competitive spirits to clash with one another, but through all the heated insults and assurances of hate, Draco didn’t really hate Potter.
No, he didn’t like him either, not in the least; but he did respect him, somewhat. And he also silently relied on the other teen. Into the darkness of lonely nights and frightening times when he faced the Dark Lord himself, Draco hoped with the little strength that remained within him that Harry Potter would win this war and defeat Voldemort once and for all.
It was a hope that echoed through everyone these days, dark and light alike. And thought some would not admit this wish, it was still there being considered, along with its formidable and unforgettable question.
What would it be like to no longer live in fear?
And… can Harry Potter truly be the one to bring upon the world that freedom?
If Potter really was the one to do that; if what the whispered secrets and rumors said were true… then Draco wanted to make sure that Potter succeeded. He knew that now, with the Dark Lord’s clutches so firmly upon him, he could do very little to aid the boy. Though Draco did not want to admit it, he was virtually powerless now; left to follow his father and mother as they shielded him as much as they could from the wrath of their master.
All he could at the moment was wait and play his part. All he could do now was stare at the clouds until an opportunity arose.
So that’s what he did. And for hours upon endless hours, Draco stared at the sky… hoping.
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Quietly, the trio crept out onto the yard of the Burrow. Night had fallen and they’d waited until the occupants of the house had fallen into a restless sleep.
Harry looked out over the hills and up at the starry sky before turning back to glance at the Weasleys’ house once more. His eyes met with ones that mirrored the moon. It was Remus.
The werewolf was eyeing him calmly, not the least bit surprised as a pensive sadness overtook his ragged features. A muggle cigarette was pinched between the fingers of his right hand, and he took a drag, his eyes never leaving Harry’s.
Ron and Hermione had noticed him too, and they stood behind Harry, bowing their heads in embarrassment for sneaking out.
“I didn’t know you smoked.” Harry couldn’t think of anything else to say, so that was what came out of his mouth.
Remus didn’t respond, but he smiled softly, still looking at the trio with a despondent expression that contrasted with his smile harshly.
“I…we…” Harry trailed off and looked away, his eyes finding the cursed spot where Arthur Weasley had fallen. His heart jerked in his chest and he felt immeasurably guilty again.
“I know,” Remus said, shocking Harry from his guilt. He’d almost expected the man not to speak. Lupin rose from his chair and put out the cigarette on a plate. One hand in his sweater pocket, he walked over to Harry and his friends, smiling, in turn, at each one of them before resting his gaze on the miserable, dark-haired one in the middle.
His eyes turned towards the skies for a minute, and if looking for all the friends he had lost, and then he reached out and pulled Harry into a hug. Leaning down, he whispered into the messy locks, “Be safe.”
Harry returned the hug, burying his head into the older man’s chest for a second before pulling away and forcing his heartbeat to slow. “Goodbye,” he choked out quiescently, his eyes closed.
“We’ll meet again, I promise,” Remus replied, warmth shining through his eyes.
Harry smiled, in earnest, and looked at his old teacher and friend for a deep breath before the three of them waved and turned away and linked arms to disapparate.
They appeared where Hermione had told them they would. It was a beautiful forest, with tall, lean trees and fanning red ferns and whispers of fog. To their right was a large stone house, windows dark and chimney empty of smoke.
“This is it,” Hermione said, trying to force a happy smile. The two boys smiled back and grabbed either one of her hands.
“We’ll be fine,” Harry said, looking back at the cabin.
“Yeah,” Ron agreed, doing the same.
“Yeah,” Hermione nodded, her hands clasping tightly around her companions’ hands. “I know.”
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Lucius Malfoy watched his son from the window of the house kitchen. The boy was sitting by the lake, staring up into the heavens. Lucius wished to join him, momentarily, but he knew that he would have to save that for another day—one far from this one.
He looked down at his untouched firewhiskey and shook his head, picking up the glass and pouring it back into the bottle. He needed to have all of his senses about him today. He was to be making a trip to the Ministry and speak to his contacts. There was much to be planned.
Severus was currently searching for his Order of the Phoenix ties, so he would be out of contact for a few days. Hopefully the Dark Lord would not notice the short absence. Severus had likely come up with a good excuse. He always did.
Lucius ran a slim finger along the bottom of his glass, gathering up the spare whiskey. Placing the finger to his lips, his licked of the small bit of alcohol and savored the taste. It wasn’t one he particularly liked, but it reminded him of the calmness that was often associated with the drink. He considered having a drink again, but he quickly shook it off.
He had a rebellion to ensue. Now was not the time for whiskey.
Now was the time for revolution.
Save the whiskey for later.
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They were a pile of flesh and clothes now. Tossing and turning over the floor, their mouths ravaged one another’s as they drank each other like wine.
Harry let out a gasp as Tom slid his fingers up the boy’s chest. He slid his hands through the older man’s hair, twisting them into his dark locks and opening half-lidded emerald eyes.
Tom felt every inch of Harry’s chest with his lips, savoring the feel of the soft flesh against his own as the young wizard writhed against him.
“Harry…” he moaned.
--
Tom Riddle forced his red eyes open and stared at the stone ceiling above him, his thin hands gripping his sheets tightly and sweat traveling down his snake-like face. He let out a low, frustrated groan and sat up, flicking his hands so the torches on the walls would ignite.
Wiping the sweat from his brow, he pulled his robes from the side table and threw them on. He’d been having dreams like these ever since the night at the Lestrange estate. He cursed himself both aloud and mentally for the slipup. How could he have lost control like that?!
He plastered a dark scowl onto his face, his vertically slit eyes narrowing as he swept out of his quarters. To have kissed Harry once was ridiculous enough, but twice? He had gone too far; and he had enjoyed it far too much.
He had to come to terms with the fact that yes, he held a certain attraction towards Potter. Why? He did not know. Never before would he have even considered such a thing. It was asinine!
But now it wasn’t so preposterous as it should be. Perhaps the attraction had arisen from that day in the courtyard. No… it had been after that. When, he could not place his finger on it… but it had begun same as the intrigue of being able to feel his own flesh. When Harry had given that to him, however unwillingly he had done so, something had awoken underneath the jade flesh that held the Dark Lord where he was.
That something was a deep longing and passion that he had put away in the shadows long ago. It was an emotion that he did not need nor desire, and it infuriated him that he was succumbing to it every time the boy was near now.
How weak must he be to lose his senses as he did! It was pathetic! He whirled around and slammed his fist into the stone wall. His skin ripped under the force, but this only angered him more, and he let his fist stay there as he rest his forehead against the unforgiving, cold stone. His teeth were bared at the floor and his breath came in short, deep heaves.
“Potter,” he growled.
What is this spell you have put me under?
That was what he had asked the first time he had kissed him. It was true. He was under some sort of spell. Voldemort was no longer himself, and he knew it. How had one boy so easily resurfaced the regret that the Dark Lord harbored for his actions? How is it that Harry could so quickly and unintentionally bring back the passion that Tom had once had? He wasn’t meant to have these feelings! He wasn’t meant to have any feelings!
Voldemort let his hand fall to his side. His knuckles were bleeding, but he ignored them as his forehead held him against the wall. “What…spell have you put me under?” he whispered throatily. “What have you done to me?”
“Master?” A hesitant voice.
The Dark Lord pushed himself from the wall and straightened, brushing off his robes before turning to the intruder on his thoughts. “Yes, Wormtail?”
Pettigrew half bowed and half groveled as he came forward. “I have been informed that Lestrange’s body was disposed of, as you ordered,” he said, sniveling, as usual. “And Snape,” he choked on the name, looking disgusted. “Has asked me to tell you that he had gotten a possible lead on “your situation” and will be gone for a few days.” At the sudden icy glare that surfaced on the Dark Lord’s eyes, Wormtail let out a little cry and shrunk back, thinking he had said something wrong.
“Good,” Voldemort said flatly, walking past the cowering man, who looked up in a mixture of surprise and relief. He spotted Voldemort’s bleeding knuckles.
“Master, your hand-”
“I can take care of it,” Tom dismissed him sharply, not looking back as he rounded the corner and set off towards his library.
If Severus had truly found a lead, then maybe he could soon get rid of this… affliction and no longer need to worry about it. That way he could focus on victory and power. That was what he truly needed to concentrate on: Success. That was the only thing that was important. Everything else he would ignore.
It was as simple as that.
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They were on the floor, their mouths battling with each other in a heated kiss. Harry reached up and ran his hands through the Riddle’s hair, gasping as the older wizard ran slim hands up his chest.
Lips were skimming his abdomen, leaving burning trails in their wake. Harry moaned and twisted up against the body against him just as Tom groaned.
“Harry…”
--
Harry woke up violently, shooting up in bed and panting furiously. His sheets were twisted around his legs so tightly it was as if he’d been recently mummified, and he mentally slapped himself when he realized that this time he had woken up too late. His boxers clung to his skin from the evidence of his dream.
His eyes shot to the window. He could barely see out into the forest. It was still dark. Thankfully there had been enough rooms in the house for the trio to sleep separately, so at least they hadn’t heard him. He could be grateful for that much.
It was only at this point that he noticed the burning throb of his scar. No… that wasn’t possible.
Have you ever dreamt of a room with a fireplace?
Had that dream not been his own? Had it been shared?
Harry shivered, the sweat trailing down his bare back catching the draft of the winter cold. This had only been the second dream like this that he’d had about Voldemort, but he felt like he’d had hundreds of them. He wrapped his arms around himself and tried desperately not to recall the burning kisses of Tom’s mouth against his skin.
His hands reached up and fisted into his hair, pulling at it desperately. Why? What the hell was happening to him?! So many questions raced through his mind that he felt overwhelmed and angry.
He disentangled himself from his sheets and threw himself off of the bed, tiptoeing over to the door and peering out of it to make sure he wasn’t spotted in such a state. Ron and Hermione’s doors were both closed. He sighed and rushed over to the bathroom, closing and locking the door behind him and turning on the faucet to the shower.
As he sat down on the toilet and waited for the room to fill up with steam, his mind drifted back, not to the dream, but to the look on Tom Riddle’s face that night two weeks ago. It had been so emotional and… passionate.
Was Voldemort even capable of such emotions?
And if he was, why had they surfaced because of Harry?
What was this tug in his chest; this dizziness in his mind? Harry clutched at his shoulders and shut his eyes tightly as the steam from the shower began to stint his breathing.
Finally, he stood and peeled of his shorts, tossing them aside and stepping into the shower. Maybe the hot water would wash it all away—all his fears and confusions and thoughts.
He let the water fall onto his face in torrents, washing down his skin and pushing off all the dirt and remnants of his dream; but it didn’t push away his thoughts. Nothing could.
And no matter how hard he tried, he could not remove the image of Lord Voldemort, staring down the hall and refusing to look at him, red eyes set with as much confusion as his own.
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NYACK! –flies away-
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