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Harry Potter › Slash - Male/Male › Harry/Voldemort
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
17
Views:
8,371
Reviews:
14
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Harry Potter › Slash - Male/Male › Harry/Voldemort
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
17
Views:
8,371
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.
Solitude
A/N: If you can’t tell, I’m putting songs that relate to the story at the beginning of every chapter. It’s gonna be hard to find ones that remind me of the story later on, but for now it shouldn’t be a problem. Read these songs because I want you to feel the mood of this fanfiction as you read along.
Anyways, enjoy! I’ll try not to take too long between chapters.
FTftFTftFTftFTftFTftFT FTftFTftFTftFTftFTftFT FTftFTftFTftFTftFTftFTFTftFTftFT
Tell you where you need to go
Tell you when you’ll need to leave
Tell you what you need to know
Tell you who you need to be
But everything inside you knows
Says more than what you’ve heard
So much more than empty conversations
Filled with empty words
And you’re on fire
When he’s near you
You’re on fire
When he speaks
You’re on fire
Burning at these mysteries
Give me one more time around
Give me one more chance to see
Give me everything you are
Give me one more chance to be near you
Cause everything inside me looks like
Everything I hate
You are the hope I have for change
You are the only chance I’ll take
When I’m on fire
When you’re near me
I’m on fire
When you speak
And I’m on fire
Burning at these mysteries
These mysteries
I’m standing on the edge of me
I’m standing on the edge
Of everything I’ve never been before
And I’m on fire
When I'm near you
I’m on fire
When you speak
I’m on fire
Burning at these mysteries
These mysteries
-Switchfoot – On Fire
FTftFTftFTftFTftFTftFT FTftFTftFTftFTftFTftFT FTftFTftFTftFTftFTftFTFTftFTftFT
Featherlight Taction
Chapter 2- Solitude
The room was ridiculously dank. It was annoying—sitting in the filthily moldy stone chamber for hours on end. It was one of the drawbacks of an underground manor. It was also the consequence of trusting imbecilic death eaters to find a suitable location to live in without being noticed by unwelcome witches and wizards.
Voldemort scowled at the flickering shadows on the stone wall. The torches were charmed not to make noise, for he hated the crackle of wood in such an empty space. It just added to the desolation of the place.
It wasn’t as if the manor wasn’t practically accommodating. It was. It kept him out of the sight of the Order of the Phoenix and gave him a satisfactory place to hold meetings and torture sessions. It was even fairly agreeable to live in, for the most part. His room was lavished with rich upholstery and other adornments. All of that was good and fine. It was the smell of the old, sunless stone was what he couldn’t get used to. It reeked of lifelessness.
He vaguely wished for any sign of outer existence other than his aggravatingly cowardly followers. He’d not been out of the manor in months, on the advice from his most trusted death eater, Severus Snape, to stay hidden as the frantic Order raged at the death of their beloved Albus Dumbledore.
Tom snorted at the thought of the old man, shaking his head slightly in disgust. He glanced over in the direction of Wormtail, the rat who always sat at the side of his seat, just as the sniveling buffoon uttered a sniff of curiosity. “Is everything okay, master?” Wormtail inquired nervously, bowing his head slightly.
“Shut up,” Tom replied nonchalantly, waving his hand to silence the pitiful waste of human flesh.
Voldemort ignored the man as he sniffled in what was most likely fear. His mind traveled to the nights of his “imprisonment”. The Dark Lord was not a man who needed much sleep, nor did he like to succumb to the act. He felt unprotected as he slept and loathed the vulnerability that accompanied dormancy.
Therefore, he often stayed up for days at a time, merely to escape the hours of weakness. However, this insomnia had brought on an even more distressing weakness. It was one that he had not decided as to whether or not it was more beneficial or destructive. The lack of sleep had weakened his mind; not to a severe degree, of course, but it had lightened his barriers ever so slightly. As it seemed, this weakening was all that Harry Potter needed to forge an almost nightly connection to Tom.
He highly doubted that the mental rendezvous’ were intentional on the boy’s part. Most likely they were involuntary, at the times when the young wizard’s mind was the most vulnerable. In other words, Voldemort was almost certain that the connections happened when Harry was asleep.
Needless to say, it was rather unwelcome. It was as if the boy tugged physically on his mind. He could almost feel him staring through his eyes sometimes, as if his head was not his own.
It happened at the most inconvenient times at well. Whenever he was either completely relaxed or in an emotional spike; that was when Harry Potter would show. He’d even felt the wizard’s presence during certain activities that the witless wonder was very unwelcome to witness. Sure, Voldemort could handle Harry observing tortures, murders, and blankly staring at walls—as he was doing now—, but when the lighting bolt scar tainted the Dark Lord’s nights of the more pleasurable activities that he sometimes indulged in… well…. that was taking things too far.
Most likely the young wizard would not take it upon himself to mention Voldemort’s particular tastes. After all, the last thing Tom Riddle needed was for the Daily Prophet to announce that yes, he was evil, but he was an evil fairy, which seemed a bit less frightening. Tom had never really considered his preferences to be an issue. The Death Eaters never spoke a word of it, and he naturally felt more powerful to be able to dominate other men. It was ridiculous to think that it would interfere by any means with his conquest. Yet, it was still not something that he liked to share openly with every passerby.
Besides, it wasn’t as if anyone would actually believe Potter if he told them that the great Lord Voldemort was gay.
Voldemort’s face twisted into a disgusted grimace and he felt the sudden need to lash out at someone. “Wormtail!”
The man at his side cried out in surprise and stuttered his reply pathetically. “Y-yes master?”
The Dark Lord surveyed the vermin for a moment, considering torturing him for a bit; but the more the rat sniffled and shook, the less he felt like doing anything to him. “Get out,” he commanded, looking away at the wall once more.
Though Pettigrew was rather confused, he was likely much more frightened, so he did as he was told and fled the room, gently shutting the heavy oak doors behind him. Tom snorted at the ridiculous display of cowardice; an action that was very unlike him. It was not as if he never showed more humanlike tendencies. No, he did not weep or sulk, but he too succumbed to the occasional snort of disapproval or grimace of disgust.
He lifted his wand and surveyed it carefully. It was pathetically cliché looking, with its bone-white sheen and dramatized handle that looked like a skull from afar. It was not a skull, of course, but it resembled one closely enough.
He twirled the wand around his fingers in thought. Contrary to popular belief, the ivory stick did not hold as many deaths within it as were expected of him. His count was around ten--for the wand, at least. No doubt it was more than the average wizard, surely, but he felt he had displayed at least a certain amount of restraint in comparison to his reputation.
Not that it wasn’t flattering for the entire wizarding world to believe that he went on daily killing sprees.
Voldemort chuckled inwardly. It was really amusing how ignorant the outside world truly was when it came to him. For instance, they seemingly believed that he held torture sessions for mere pleasure. Though that had been the case on a few occasions, it was rare. Usually, whenever he uttered Crucio, it was for a reason. One had to make a point somehow. Crucio was merely a convenient way to make your opinion clear. It was also very good for retrieving information, but he had much easier means for that need.
It was true that he liked to cause pain, but only on those who had likewise inflicted some sort of inconvenience upon him. For those who tried to hurt him, disobey him, or hinder him, punishment was necessary. He liked to see them squirm. Tom saw it as an eye for an eye.
They were right about his thirst for power. Tom lusted after it. Power over himself and others was something he dreamed of. He liked control. He liked things to go the way he wanted them to. It wasn’t his fault that his tendencies were towards more… violent methods. He did what he needed to do to get things done. He loved getting what he wanted.
He did not love the smell of fear. He hated it, but it was often accompanied with pain, and pain was often accompanied with hate. That he could deal with. Hate was something he had cornucopias of. He’d had plenty of reasons to be hateful. The way he was treated as a child was means enough. But the best way he’d gotten all that hate was from others. The more he came to power, the more people hated him. He had consumed all of their malcontent as if it were food.
It had left him to become nothing more than a monster.
And being a monster got him what he wanted.
But being a monster also did something else. It secluded him. He’d tried desperately to gain respect and reverence, but all he had gained was fear. Never had he genuinely been respected. He had to admit it was hard to gain honest respect when you tried to suck it from fear. The respect he did have was from a horrific viewpoint. It was not real.
Still, he was alone. Fear was his company.
And he hated the smell of fear.
FTftFTftFTftFTftFTftFT FTftFTftFTftFTftFTftFT FTftFTftFTftFTftFTftFTFTftFTftFT
Waaa! I know it was short! I’m just trying to introduce everyone and the settings! Now stuff will actually start to happen! Yay for stuff!
--
Also, if you like Harry Potter, check out my site, Wizard Portus. We've got roleplays, games, contests, places to put your fanfiction, a gallery with over 2500 images, and even a huge HP encyclopedia on everything in the Potter-verse.
The address is: wizardportus(dot)co(dot)nr
Anyways, enjoy! I’ll try not to take too long between chapters.
FTftFTftFTftFTftFTftFT FTftFTftFTftFTftFTftFT FTftFTftFTftFTftFTftFTFTftFTftFT
Tell you where you need to go
Tell you when you’ll need to leave
Tell you what you need to know
Tell you who you need to be
But everything inside you knows
Says more than what you’ve heard
So much more than empty conversations
Filled with empty words
And you’re on fire
When he’s near you
You’re on fire
When he speaks
You’re on fire
Burning at these mysteries
Give me one more time around
Give me one more chance to see
Give me everything you are
Give me one more chance to be near you
Cause everything inside me looks like
Everything I hate
You are the hope I have for change
You are the only chance I’ll take
When I’m on fire
When you’re near me
I’m on fire
When you speak
And I’m on fire
Burning at these mysteries
These mysteries
I’m standing on the edge of me
I’m standing on the edge
Of everything I’ve never been before
And I’m on fire
When I'm near you
I’m on fire
When you speak
I’m on fire
Burning at these mysteries
These mysteries
-Switchfoot – On Fire
FTftFTftFTftFTftFTftFT FTftFTftFTftFTftFTftFT FTftFTftFTftFTftFTftFTFTftFTftFT
Featherlight Taction
Chapter 2- Solitude
The room was ridiculously dank. It was annoying—sitting in the filthily moldy stone chamber for hours on end. It was one of the drawbacks of an underground manor. It was also the consequence of trusting imbecilic death eaters to find a suitable location to live in without being noticed by unwelcome witches and wizards.
Voldemort scowled at the flickering shadows on the stone wall. The torches were charmed not to make noise, for he hated the crackle of wood in such an empty space. It just added to the desolation of the place.
It wasn’t as if the manor wasn’t practically accommodating. It was. It kept him out of the sight of the Order of the Phoenix and gave him a satisfactory place to hold meetings and torture sessions. It was even fairly agreeable to live in, for the most part. His room was lavished with rich upholstery and other adornments. All of that was good and fine. It was the smell of the old, sunless stone was what he couldn’t get used to. It reeked of lifelessness.
He vaguely wished for any sign of outer existence other than his aggravatingly cowardly followers. He’d not been out of the manor in months, on the advice from his most trusted death eater, Severus Snape, to stay hidden as the frantic Order raged at the death of their beloved Albus Dumbledore.
Tom snorted at the thought of the old man, shaking his head slightly in disgust. He glanced over in the direction of Wormtail, the rat who always sat at the side of his seat, just as the sniveling buffoon uttered a sniff of curiosity. “Is everything okay, master?” Wormtail inquired nervously, bowing his head slightly.
“Shut up,” Tom replied nonchalantly, waving his hand to silence the pitiful waste of human flesh.
Voldemort ignored the man as he sniffled in what was most likely fear. His mind traveled to the nights of his “imprisonment”. The Dark Lord was not a man who needed much sleep, nor did he like to succumb to the act. He felt unprotected as he slept and loathed the vulnerability that accompanied dormancy.
Therefore, he often stayed up for days at a time, merely to escape the hours of weakness. However, this insomnia had brought on an even more distressing weakness. It was one that he had not decided as to whether or not it was more beneficial or destructive. The lack of sleep had weakened his mind; not to a severe degree, of course, but it had lightened his barriers ever so slightly. As it seemed, this weakening was all that Harry Potter needed to forge an almost nightly connection to Tom.
He highly doubted that the mental rendezvous’ were intentional on the boy’s part. Most likely they were involuntary, at the times when the young wizard’s mind was the most vulnerable. In other words, Voldemort was almost certain that the connections happened when Harry was asleep.
Needless to say, it was rather unwelcome. It was as if the boy tugged physically on his mind. He could almost feel him staring through his eyes sometimes, as if his head was not his own.
It happened at the most inconvenient times at well. Whenever he was either completely relaxed or in an emotional spike; that was when Harry Potter would show. He’d even felt the wizard’s presence during certain activities that the witless wonder was very unwelcome to witness. Sure, Voldemort could handle Harry observing tortures, murders, and blankly staring at walls—as he was doing now—, but when the lighting bolt scar tainted the Dark Lord’s nights of the more pleasurable activities that he sometimes indulged in… well…. that was taking things too far.
Most likely the young wizard would not take it upon himself to mention Voldemort’s particular tastes. After all, the last thing Tom Riddle needed was for the Daily Prophet to announce that yes, he was evil, but he was an evil fairy, which seemed a bit less frightening. Tom had never really considered his preferences to be an issue. The Death Eaters never spoke a word of it, and he naturally felt more powerful to be able to dominate other men. It was ridiculous to think that it would interfere by any means with his conquest. Yet, it was still not something that he liked to share openly with every passerby.
Besides, it wasn’t as if anyone would actually believe Potter if he told them that the great Lord Voldemort was gay.
Voldemort’s face twisted into a disgusted grimace and he felt the sudden need to lash out at someone. “Wormtail!”
The man at his side cried out in surprise and stuttered his reply pathetically. “Y-yes master?”
The Dark Lord surveyed the vermin for a moment, considering torturing him for a bit; but the more the rat sniffled and shook, the less he felt like doing anything to him. “Get out,” he commanded, looking away at the wall once more.
Though Pettigrew was rather confused, he was likely much more frightened, so he did as he was told and fled the room, gently shutting the heavy oak doors behind him. Tom snorted at the ridiculous display of cowardice; an action that was very unlike him. It was not as if he never showed more humanlike tendencies. No, he did not weep or sulk, but he too succumbed to the occasional snort of disapproval or grimace of disgust.
He lifted his wand and surveyed it carefully. It was pathetically cliché looking, with its bone-white sheen and dramatized handle that looked like a skull from afar. It was not a skull, of course, but it resembled one closely enough.
He twirled the wand around his fingers in thought. Contrary to popular belief, the ivory stick did not hold as many deaths within it as were expected of him. His count was around ten--for the wand, at least. No doubt it was more than the average wizard, surely, but he felt he had displayed at least a certain amount of restraint in comparison to his reputation.
Not that it wasn’t flattering for the entire wizarding world to believe that he went on daily killing sprees.
Voldemort chuckled inwardly. It was really amusing how ignorant the outside world truly was when it came to him. For instance, they seemingly believed that he held torture sessions for mere pleasure. Though that had been the case on a few occasions, it was rare. Usually, whenever he uttered Crucio, it was for a reason. One had to make a point somehow. Crucio was merely a convenient way to make your opinion clear. It was also very good for retrieving information, but he had much easier means for that need.
It was true that he liked to cause pain, but only on those who had likewise inflicted some sort of inconvenience upon him. For those who tried to hurt him, disobey him, or hinder him, punishment was necessary. He liked to see them squirm. Tom saw it as an eye for an eye.
They were right about his thirst for power. Tom lusted after it. Power over himself and others was something he dreamed of. He liked control. He liked things to go the way he wanted them to. It wasn’t his fault that his tendencies were towards more… violent methods. He did what he needed to do to get things done. He loved getting what he wanted.
He did not love the smell of fear. He hated it, but it was often accompanied with pain, and pain was often accompanied with hate. That he could deal with. Hate was something he had cornucopias of. He’d had plenty of reasons to be hateful. The way he was treated as a child was means enough. But the best way he’d gotten all that hate was from others. The more he came to power, the more people hated him. He had consumed all of their malcontent as if it were food.
It had left him to become nothing more than a monster.
And being a monster got him what he wanted.
But being a monster also did something else. It secluded him. He’d tried desperately to gain respect and reverence, but all he had gained was fear. Never had he genuinely been respected. He had to admit it was hard to gain honest respect when you tried to suck it from fear. The respect he did have was from a horrific viewpoint. It was not real.
Still, he was alone. Fear was his company.
And he hated the smell of fear.
FTftFTftFTftFTftFTftFT FTftFTftFTftFTftFTftFT FTftFTftFTftFTftFTftFTFTftFTftFT
Waaa! I know it was short! I’m just trying to introduce everyone and the settings! Now stuff will actually start to happen! Yay for stuff!
--
Also, if you like Harry Potter, check out my site, Wizard Portus. We've got roleplays, games, contests, places to put your fanfiction, a gallery with over 2500 images, and even a huge HP encyclopedia on everything in the Potter-verse.
The address is: wizardportus(dot)co(dot)nr