1001 Nights
Disclaimer: The plot and stories are based off of a Korean manhwa I recently read (and fell in love with) called 1001 nights by Jeon JinSeok and Han SeungHee. It's not a word for word transcription (though some parts are such as some of the dialogue) and hopefully I managed to bring my own twist to it. The only character that I own is Mirium and I detest the use of original characters but I had to do it because I didn't want Tom fighting over Bellatrix because I don't find her that attractive (sorry fans) when Farima in the manga was really, really pretty (in my opinion).
Note: Touma is an Arabic form of Thomas. Arabic is spoken in Baghdad. I didn't chose the setting, I just kept it the same as the manga. I know almost nothing about Baghdad. I'm sorry in advance. Harry is Haari because Haari is the Arabic form of Henry and Henry is the Old High German variant of the English name Harry. Ronald is translated into a LOT of languages but I couldn't find an Arabic version (not for lack of trying) so I just picked Renaud which is French and good enough for me. Some names (Hermione, Alphard, Rabastian, Fleur, Remus) stayed the same because they're uncommon looking enough and I'm sick and tired of looking up etymologies.
I should probably mention that though I've been reading HP fanfictions (my favorite being Tom and Harry of course) for almost as long as I've been aware of fanfictions' existence, I never entertained the thought of writing one for myself because I've read so many mind numbingly beautiful ones that in comparison I'm pretty much destined to crash and burn instead. However, I've never been a fan of regret so the way I see it, there's no way I'll improve without trying. In other words: don't hate me. Please.
The world is formed with one half day and one half night. Soldiers do battle, merchants sell their wares, and farmers till the land. At night, everyone stops and listens to the stories. The human drama that unfolds by day is only the tip of the iceberg; even more happens at night. Now, I shall begin telling those stories of the night.
The room echoes as cloth covered feet graze the floor in a mockery of Death's approaching steps, his skeletal feet floating – almost touching - over the cold marble floor. The sole companion in the room can't help but bring to mind the imagery of a cloak of darkness swirling silently like a subdued cyclone around Death's bone white form. A click, akin to the tap of Death's sickle grazing the floor, brings the young girl's attention to the intruder, and the clanking of the precious jewels strung into the expensive curtains surrounding the bed breaks the silence of the night. The girl's ears echo with the amplified sound of her pounding heartbeat, making her feel even more claustrophobic and anxious. Every breath that she takes in an attempt to calm her erratic heart only serves to bring more attention to her distress. A deep, confident chuckle vibrates through the room, and the young maiden slowly turns to see the most beautiful man she's ever seen.
Dark hair, the color of a bottomless abyss, rich and full, covers his magnificent head. His face appears to be chiseled out of marble like the greatest Greek masterpieces, perfection that was designed to be viewed for eons to come. A sharp nose sits in the center of his brilliant facade, making his appearance regal unlike the tiny dot adjourning some other males' faces. Atop the nose rests a pair of dark blue orbs, sparking with echos of the riches they've glanced upon and the beauty they've grown accustomed to. Yet a dark glint appears in those eyes and in a flash the faces – dying, bleeding, agonizing – of those dead and conquered reflects back in those eyes, those eyes that have caused more suffering than any one army alone. One slim eyebrow arches as if questioning whether the observer had been mistaken, how could a face that could only have been gifted by god himself possibly commit the slightest hint of a crime. That mouth arches in a sardonic smile of amusement and brings contrast to the reality of the situation. His perfect chin lifted up by habit conveys superiority in a subtle but noticeable gesture missing from the cockiness of those whom didn't earn the respect and wealth they inherit through association. A slim but strong hand reaches up to cup the face of its owner's female audience, feather light as if afraid the simple gesture would scare away its skittish prey. His thumb rubs circles in the crook of her jaw as his face moves so his lips barely graze her delicate ear.
"Are you the woman who will make me happy tonight? Do not fear, beautiful" he inhales through his nose and their close proximity allows her to be embraced by his scent: musk, chocolate, a hint of whiskey, and – if such a thing could be recognized by scent alone – the cold desert wind. It overpowers her senses until the only thing she notices anymore is him and she can't help but forget why this is a bad thing. "However, that will only help you for so long." His stony tone cut through the cloud of bliss that momentarily clouded her judgment and she draws back in a quick, instinctive motion – like wild game that realized too late the trap its rash actions set off, trying to escape though it knows death is unavoidable at this point.
"I'd hope you would do a good job but…" the beautiful man's voice seemed to be trailing off into thought, but the glint in his eyes showed how much he enjoyed the unspoken power he held against his prisoner, "it's not like it'll matter in a few hours." The voice that accompanied the statement rang through the still silence of the room, enjoyment quite evident as if its owner was delivering joyful sentiments "At sunrise, this pretty head will be permanently separated from this delicate frame," slender fingers ghosted under the female's jaw, short nails dragging in an imitation of where the neck would soon be graced with the kiss of the executioner's blade. Instinctively, she flinched away from the hand and looked down at the floor to prevent the other from seeing the fear that flashed through her eyes. As her eyes diverted away from his handsome face, his elegant lips curled up into a demonic smile that would have set off warning signals to the most hardened of assassins.
"You're quivering," these words were spoken with a tone that parodied concern. "Are you afraid?" His laugh chills her to the bone and allows the bedchamber to resemble something much lonelier and colder to her skittish mind. With the prowess of a slick tiger, the man tips the golden liquid from its resting place in the cup into the cavern of his mouth. A gulp reaches her ears as he downs the drink and throws the golden gauntlet over his shoulder without a single care. The resounding clang follows and she can't help but resent the man for his carelessness, habitually given to such an expensive accessory all while the poor starve right outside these very walls. Before her mind can divulge down this path of thought for much longer, a tan, lean arm wraps around her waist, pulling her towards him as his lips connect with their partner's. A tongue darts out to taste its surroundings – who's tongue doesn't quite matter when there's a warm desire deep inside both of them, struggling to escape. They part, the only thing her mind registers is the taste of him lingering within the recesses of her mouth.
Her eyes stare at his, dazed and clouded by the sensory overload. Though he glazes back, his face remains expressionless as if unphased by the breach of intimacy. Her lips part in an exhale and she can't help but be hyperaware of his hands which rests on her back and hip, like strong pillars supporting her flighty mind. No matter how hard she tries, it's hard to focus on anything besides the beautiful red tint of his lips and the hand gravitating up her navel. With a blink, his face holds the edges of bewilderment as he catches onto something – the nature of which can't help but escape her. She reaches her hand up to caress his face, a gentle gesture in its nature, and his eyes follow the path of her palm with a look laced with suspicion.
The sound of cloth ripping echoes through the hollow room. Emerald green eyes blink in surprise at the sudden rush of air to their owner's chest. Silence fills the room so thick it seems to be stifling its occupants before a loud laugh cuts through the air. "You must be kidding me!" Dark smothering eyes look down with sadistic glee, "I was told my harem was out of virgins, but I didn't expect them to bring me a boy." His companion struggles to escape his bind but this only serves to provoke its owner to tighten his grip on the smaller male. "Oh, sensitive," His tone holds twisted glee void of any concern, "You're a virgin then?"
The younger male glares daggers – a sharp contrast to his previously submissive female facade - at the owner of the voice who seems completely unphased by the situation. "I have something to tell you," the smaller form speaks with a steady voice besides the slightest wavering, indicating a suppressed stutter that would have given away its owner's helplessness in the situation.
All amusement slips away from the handsome man's visage and his cold tone echoes his face's message "Silence." Before the other male can even think to move, the older of the pair pounces forward with the lack of hesitance commonly found in experienced killers. A steady hand soon pins the smaller's neck while long, never-ending legs effectively spread their pale, almost feminine counterparts. With their bare torsos almost close enough to be touching, any opportunity of escape managed to flee the younger's usually nimble mind. In the blink of an eye, a dagger appears in the corner of his eye, the cruel smile reflecting off its well-polished blade paired with the dulled polish off the protruding ridges forming an intricate design on the blade's handle showed signs of regular use. The fingers connected to the blade twitch, reflecting their owner's not so well hidden sadistic desires. "Shall I gut you now instead of waiting till morning…" the tip of the cold, unforgiving blade gently rests against the unmarred surface of a pale, smooth abdomen.
"Sire –" Any pleas that were about to escape that delicate mouth instantly hushes when his dangerous companion moves the blade to rest on his lips in a twisted version of the classic silencing gesture.
"Or shall I slit your pretty little throat instead?" The blade's movement this time accompanied by the slightest of pressures, threatened to break the surface of porcelain-like skin. Instead of fear, however, clear green eyes shone with something that vaguely resembled disappointment, giving the beautiful face a weary, tired expression.
"Don't you remember me?"