A/N: Figuratively may contain dark themes, depending upon the perspective. Slightly AU
{Disclaimer: Based upon JKR's book characters from HP of course}
* ~ Two Potions of Blackness ~ *
It was safe to iterate,
That the dark . . .
Had been lighted.
Fairly safe,
To dictate to our friends,
That a nasty particle of,
Potion,
Was not, any longer, to be brewed,
For this one had nourished,
Too much- young, pinkish flesh,
In explanation of the demon,
Who had once conquered,
With a silken thread,
A quick flick of a pearlescent hand-
A delicacy that spoke of grace,
But more importantly-
A deceptive gait,
That many people would not,
Have the mind to fathom,
But nonetheless the stubble,
Caressing this man's seeming enamel,
Swathing a precarious madness,
Pale skin beneath the blackness,
Sought to nourish-
To slowly and artfully touch,
Each child, each human soul,
For as he ghosted into,
The black night barely lighted,
By a moon that was featureless,
The robed figure cast,
Each trembling, fast-flying person,
Back- back to haunting, insanity,
Beneath his reddened gaze,
Formless-
His own, soft pincushion-
A gliding formality,
That he, might have been,
Some shadow beside our beds,
A mere formality,
Until the moon began to change,
Sprouting craters, as his face,
Grew a skull, mind and soul,
Moving meticulously by,
Our prone, selves in the morning-
To hide in wait, as we still dreamed.
One night, the soft innocence,
Kissed his long, yellowed nails-
And then paused,
Turning around carefully,
At the voice of a fearful child,
A child that in a faraway land,
Wept a sweet and a lustful cry-
And he took to heart,
This man, caressing his own, jagged nails,
Needed to find, the innocent babe-
The babe who would grow up to be,
His own conqueror . . .
This curious baby.
This deathly omen,
Who had once been a pincushion,
Or a voodoo doll,
That we might stick-
A treasured item,
Or one that, held our fancy merely,
An object, that could have passed,
By as a lowly particle,
Piece of life,
Now created,
A renewed semblance . . .
He evilly smiled,
As he smote the child,
His mother, pleading for mercy,
And as his face formed,
And the moon grew craters,
He crossed over the land,
The picture of prettiness,
As with, a rapid flick,
He drew each child, man, and woman-
One by one,
With a dainty string of silver-
Then, the night broke beneath wonder,
And the man who was-
Lord Voldemort, hid beneath a stone,
A thin pale master,
Of the arts he loved dear,
Raised his hand to kill,
This murderer.
Yet no one knew, saw, or cared.
Through the snow
He swept, like a glorious bat,
Enwrapped with a voluptuous black,
So sadly that-
Between the two no one fathomed he,
The bat, was a man that had,
Loved the child's mother.
Pain reflected from,
His two, glittering black orbs,
Those styles that,
Made students quake,
In awe of his unique design.
This mad, gruesome thing self-adorning,
This disgusting brutal force that once,
Had been some innocence,
Was vanquished.
His sad look-alike but handsome master,
Of the arts of dark and other matters,
Had brewed the potion of the light,
In explanation of pure, shining white safety.
Our hearts throb, for this lone bat,
Who was sorely seen as only,
A gleaming and a bad song-
Yet now, the music to our ears enlivens us,
As we read about the two, blackened potions,
The two-
That fought for respect-
Only one could have won out-
And it was made with the same ingredients,
Save for one-
His love for Lilly Evans,
Simply love.
