Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter
Written for Challenge #78 on The Dark Lord's Most Faithful forum, the prompt being to describe a character;s relationship between a character and a body part (be it their own or someone else's). I have chosen to relate Lord Voldemort to his hands.
Please enjoy.
Were there ever a practitioner of magic without the aide of a wand more powerful than The Dark Lord they did not exist in his time. This era was his alone and none could hope to command such power with a touch as he. Within the connection between his own fingers and palms and angled bones there was a simplicity and in truth he preferred vastly more to commune with the universe in such a manner.
Wand-less magic, the epitomization of the master sorcerer and he had poured over tomes until there was little more left in the world for him to learn of the matter and he realized that his gifts were not those of the common place wizard and never had been. That he, Voldemort, was matchless in his faculty.
Oh surely enough other wizards could wave about their enchanted branchlet that encased pieces poached from beings closer to the magic and more organically. But never would they hold true power in their hands as he did. Could not touch a curse meant for pain and destruction and hold it at bay, a caress and under his fingers he could coax from that weaker magic feats more worthy of him.
He had once held physical beauty, a power all its own, but not one that he had ever held any deep attachment to and so he had traded the ability to seduce with simple bone and tissue for a form which was a far more suitable vessel for energy's potency and there it had incubated as if in a womb. Long since he had cast the appearance of glamour from himself and there were magics that might have returned it but he held in his heart no desire to.
His hands were the one beauty that he could not strip away and they were large and thin and his fingers suited for artistic pursuit and he did so in the form of war. Painting in red and composing in screams and there too his genius was apparent. Leave conventional expression for more simple minds and let the beauty of a body contorted in pain with lovely arches and angles be his medium.
He could manipulate the human body as he did the energy of this world and in particular, the stunning violin symmetry of a pale being with long limbs and beautiful dark hair, was a favorite instrument. And under his hands she came to pain and pleasure and always, always, shuddering under his caress with a racing heart and on her back her white breasts lifted to reveal the full roundness of their shape and the velvet softness there with their rigid peaks that need to be coaxed with delicate brushes, pinching and pulling, and a firm grasp that fully covered her bust and the darkened points he would leave exposed between his fingers.
It was only after such touches that she was supple and receptive and he was able to put his mouth to the lovely, textured, tips until her gorgeous sex was open and shimmering damp for him in the dark. Rich (in color, in taste) and flushed and warmed as the blush the spread across her pretty face and traced over her strong jaw and down over her collar, sharp as a rocky spine. He could never have enchanted her so thoroughly and driven her to thrash and keen beneath him without his hands.
And here too there were other acts of great pleasure and yet he most craved to explore with touches. He was tactile and yet were anyone to lay their hands upon him he would have seen to it that they would never do so again. No, he would instigate and instigate alone and it was why only his most trusted were branded with his emblem because it required him to grasp their arm through the long process.
Most had quaked in pain as he coaxed the mark from their skin and his pulse had leapt in delight at their agony. One had been still and serene even as he stoked the brand onto white flesh and he had offered his single smile to the dozen, his admiration at their stoicism. That day he had briefly bestowed his hand upon their cheek before taking his leave.
Nagini was a magnificent thing to interact with, with her textured scales and she coiled and sprawled as he probed the the ridged scales idly, eyes closed to the enormous length of sinewy danger stretched like a contented cat in his hands. No one else could have cradled the girth of the great snake in their palms and yet his massive hands allowed for just that. His fingers fair against the dark serpent and he carefully supported the width of her body because gentleness existed within his touch as well, rare as it was.
He was special, better, so much better, and he had known for as long as he could remember that he was excellent. The manifestation then, when he was a child had been in his long, gawky fingers and in time he had grown into them and into his strength and come to see them as tools of ambition. They could create what needed making and destroy what need be removed and spun empire and death. He was fully in his own now.
With such hands he was suited only to climb. And he would rise and rise and rise and one day he would pause and grasp nothingness and find that he had touched stars.
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