The Heart of the Matter
A very quick, one shot, one write.
Happy Halloween, from SS-Nineteen…
"Albus. So pleased you could come, despite the tardiness of my invitation. Please, do come in." Lord Voldemort gestured toward the dining room, his hand movement graceful and elegant. Albus Dumbledore glanced at him briefly before nodding his head in acceptance of the greeting and entering the dining room, subdued navy robes brushing the carpet gently. "Was there a particular reason for that invitation, Tom?"
"For old times' sake, do you not think?" Voldemort answered, "It is Halloween, after all. Stranger things have happened. Please, sit. A glass of wine, perhaps? I have a vintage red from nineteen thirty two, French, I hear it was a very good year."
Albus took the goblet from Voldemort but waited, inconspicuously, for Voldemort to take a sip before doing so himself. The dining room table, long and fashioned from mahogany with intricate, snakelike carvings was set for two. Dinner, with the Dark Lord Voldemort. Albus wondered what the true reason for this meeting was. He seated himself at the table, watching carefully as Lord Voldemort did so too, opposite Albus. "I think we should eat first, and then talk later." Voldemort turned his head to summon a house-elf, and Albus took the time to examine the room in Riddle Mansion - the emerald walls, the dusty curtains, the cold marble tiles, the shelves with many different spines, and the way air seemed to hang, not too cold, not too warm, yet distinctly uncomfortable, too.
The house-elf, dirty and neglected, whimpered as he passed Voldemort as if expecting punishment simply for crossing into the Dark Lord's eye line. The plates, some sort of meat and a fruit sauce, smelt divine - but still Albus was cautious. This was Voldemort, after all - and it would not be above him to poison his dinner partner.
Voldemort smiled, almost cruelly and certainly mirthlessly, at Albus. "Please, do. I have not taken the time to tamper with it - my intention is not to kill you, Albus. Not before dinner, at least." Voldemort shifted his napkin slightly, and then pressed the blade of his knife against the meat. He watched as a little blood dribbled from the protein, "Practically still beating."
Albus glanced at him at those words, but assumed Voldemort was simply commenting on the rareness of the meat. "I did not believe you could taste food, Tom."
"Only those that are particularly rich. Although you are correct, I mostly eat for show." Lord Voldemort's disfigured face seemed ever more ethereal in the flickering candlelight of the chandeliers. "It is nice to think that the two of us could sit down and have such a civilised conversation. The only other person who manages such a thing is Severus."
A charged pause.
"I have not seen Severus for some time, Albus. I assume he is keeping busy."
Albus looked at him, "He is brewing, as he usually does, Tom. I did not come to speak of Severus."
"But he remains a favourite topic of conversation, does he not? Severus Snape. Such an…enigmatic being."
"Severus, do come in. Sit, please. Yes, the chair, there. That's it. Don't mind the ties. They are just there to help…smooth the process."
"What does that mean?" Albus murmured in response to Voldemort's comment about Severus' being.
"Simply that he marvels even I. How do you find the meat?"
"It is rather interesting - peculiar, like nothing I have tasted before, yet still acceptable. Will you enlighten me as to what it is?" Albus continued to contemplate the meat. Voldemort laughed, "Ah, if I was to tell you that, Albus, you would not finish it. The sauce complements well, too, do you not think?"
The glint of a knife.
Plates cleared. Glasses empty. Voldemort leaned back in his chair, watching Albus. "Now, perhaps we should get to the heart of the matter."
Albus raised an eyebrow, "The heart of the matter?"
"Indeed. I did wish to speak to you, more seriously, of our Slytherin counterpart." Voldemort considered the knife on his plate, eyeing the red liquid that stained the once clean metal. Silence, for a moment. "Did you know, in ancient cultures, warriors often ate the hearts of those they defeated, believing it would absorb their strength? If one was betrayed, it was a…cleansing ritual, for both the betrayed and the betrayer."
"A nice story, Tom. May I ask how it is relevant?"
"I found the heart rather strong - seemed to disagree with the sauce that should have controlled the flavour."
Albus stared at him. "Pardon?"
Voldemort continued to play with the knife.
"You'll feel a little drowsy, first - then you'll just stop breathing. I wouldn't do this to you alive, Severus. I am not that sadistic. It will be like falling asleep. I owe you that much. Hush now. Just let go."
"Oh, and Albus." Voldemort called after the rapidly retreating figure of Albus Dumbledore, bemused that there was no further conversation to be had, "You will need to find a new Potions' Teacher. Happy Halloween."