A/N: So this is a snippet from a story I've been very slowly developing for the past few months. Basically, Harry occasionally flees to the Forbidden Forest in his Sixth Year to talk to the thestrals. One day he finds Voldemort in his animagus form (a Margay) listening to his musings and brings extra meat for him the next time he visits. From there, things develop... this particular scene takes place after one of the 'lessons' with Dumbledore. Harry does not hate him yet, and I'm undecided if he ever will, he resents the choices he has made and is coming to see many of his manipulations for what they are. Anyway, please enjoy, keep in mind that this is still in revisions, and leave any thoughts and/or comments.
"That self-righteous, self-serving, sanctimonious zealot!" Harry fumed, the air around him crackling ominously. "As if he knows what living with magic-hating muggles is like! As if he's been hated and ridiculed for no reason beyond living- as if he's been exercised, or starved, or wondered hopelessly, helplessly, for days on end what was wrong with him- if he's defective! He knows precisely what he's subjected me to, what he subjected Riddle to, and yet he carries on in his little bubble, ignoring his oaths, his duties, his-"
Harry, who had been punctuating each point by taking his aggressions out on a tree, abruptly halted as bark shot forth like a hail of shrapnel, a hole blown clean through the oak. He flung his hands in front of him- a directing gesture, Voldemort noted, watching as his magic worked to incinerate each threat before it reached its master. Even more surprisingly, the air before the animagus had gained a familiar hazy quality, magic shimmering into a barrier, protective even without the boys conscious direction.
Harry spun 'round, heedless of the fresh pile of ash or his casual display of wandless magic, and set to pacing, having thought better of attacking another tree in his anger-induced daze.
"'Riddle can't possibly feel such emotion as love- he was conceived of a loveless tryst, after all,'" he nattered condescendingly, his impression of Dumbledore startling for all that he achieved an eerie likeness to the manipulator. Putting aside his own tumultuous emotions on the matter, Voldemort could see that the meddling had worked in his favor, having worked the boy into a fit of rage so monumental even the thestrals had cleared out.
"'It's okay to pity him, my dear boy,'" he continued, sneering contemptuously as crimson flecks overtook green irises. "As if Riddle needed pity, of all things! And in the thirties, when everybody's likely as repressed as the Dursley's, taking out their pent up aggressions on the easy target, the 'freak'. It's a wonder how he misinterprets my every thought, thinking me so ensnared in his webs that I wouldn't bother to apply real world knowledge. Honestly, how does the man think I survived to eleven? Has he just blocked out that the hat wished me in Slytherin, or is he just so dim…"
Several nearby pinecones detonated, and Harry swung around at the sound, wand springing to his hand, the smell of ozone heavy in the air as his impressive aura unfurled before realizing the only threat was his own lack of control.
If Voldemort hadn't been taken aback before, he certainly was now: this child's aura- and for all his smarts and wisdom Potter was still a child, as demonstrated by the fluctuating, uncontrolled magic- was intimidating in its own right, his potential was astronomical, his levels nearly rivaling Dumbledore's and his own despite not yet having reached his inheritance. It was truly a marvel; Voldemort could only imagine how powerful Harry would be by seventeen.
Whilst Voldemort pondered this revelation Harry calmed, slowly tucking away his magic and breathing deeply, the cool, fresh forest air clearing his rage-addled mind.
"No," he breathed, garnering Voldemort's immediate attention. "Underestimating him will get me killed. He's smarter than that: he's seen the signs, that's why he has me watched. He sees the potential as well as I, and yet he blinds himself, willing to believe that I will always take the moral high ground. And why shouldn't I? It's how I was groomed… honestly, it's doubtful I'd ever of even seen past my own nose without being possessed."
"But still, I'm missing something. That last piece that makes Dumbledore so sure, so confident in his puppeteering. A mere piece of divination isn't enough, but there's something there, something to it, an inexplicable piece of magic that would slide everything into perspective… magical bindings, perhaps? Or even my link to Voldemort… so many angles to exploit, and I naively left myself exposed on all sides."