Kissing Game
A Crack Fic By Materia Blade
Chapter One
Power
Lord Voldemort, the True Heir of Slytherin, last remaining scion of the House of Gaunt, stood idly pacing in a darkened chamber. Few knew the chamber even existed outside of the department of Mysteries and fewer still knew what it was for.
Voldemort knew many things however. Knowledge, as has often been spoken by fools who lacked it, was power after all. So Lord Voldemort paced. Back and forth. Back and forth.
Forty nine candles lit the hall. As seven was a magically significant number, surely the multiple of two sevens would be even stronger. So Voldemort had taken to basking in the light of Forty Nine candles whenever he needed to do extensive amounts of research. The practice had thus far proven ineffectual. The tapestry which decorated the entire room was still just as baffling before as it was now that he viewed it by candlelight.
He sensed no magic in the wall. No special runes dotted its numerous criss-crossing lines. No lightning struck the sky when he touched the aged stone. And yet it was magical.
All it held, all it contained really, were names. Hundreds, and hundreds of names, dating back to the oldest still living human, whose name happened to be recorded. It was chronologically ordered by year, and then within the year each name was listed alphabetically, each with its own crest descending down the wall.
1981. Sure enough, Harry Potter was somewhere near the bottom in the P's. Well that wasn't surprising. His name was highlighted in a neon gold and it did shimmer softly. From it spring a golden line, trailing across the wall forward in time. Walking down the wall to the year 1982, he still found that the line connected to boy's red-headed wife. Her name also shone in gold.
A huge, circular room, or at least it had so many sides that it seemed circular. Lord Voldemort had circled it several times in the past few hours that he had been here studying. The oldest name, one Brophesus Pimnack sported his name on the year 1819. Whoever this bastard was, he was 187 years old.
Luckily, his name was greyed out. A cobwebby, dirty line trailed from his name all the way up to 1832 where the name Tabitha Spith was also grayed out. This, Voldemort had decided, was the second category of names, and it too was easy to figure out.
One of that pair had died. Judging from the skull behind Tabitha's name, Voldemort assumed it was other lingered on in misery.
Irritated, he strolled back to the the pedestal in the middle of the room. Honestly the whole place was rather beautiful. Small concentric bridges separated out over a small moat that separated the circular platform and pedestal from the many many walls and names. As the years continued it had been documented that the room's walls would grow to accommodate them. As the last people from a year died, the year dissolved itself from the wall and the room shrunk.
"It is truly a beautiful script Master," said the aging Delores Umbridge as she gazed down at the pedestal and the iron sculpture of a book. Upon it were words in an ancient language. Voldemort could read them, as he had completed the prerequisite visits to Tibet, Algeria, the Bald Mountain, and a rather unhinged trip Over of the Rainbow to learn the strange dialect. He doubted there were more than five people in all the world who could do the same.
"Do you... know what it means?" she posed timidly.
"Of course I do!" the Dark Lord snapped, his red eyes trained on the grovelling servant.
The woman gulped clearly quite terrified. But she had helped to resurrect him a second time and for that he would be lenient. A hare. Impatience, harshness, and recklessness had gotten him nowhere last time. Perhaps a softer touch was called for.
"M-Might I be permitted... to know, My Lord?"
Voldemort shot her another annoyed look but sighed.
"Very well. The script reads:
"Et all epresn't keine estum stieelum. Suki desu.
Avate. Avate estum stieelum!
Ava.
"It... sounds so foreign," the woman remarked with a hint of distaste. "But the words are majestic. Are they a spell, an incantation of some sort, Master?"
"Hardly. The translation is... vulgar."
Lord Voldemort's voice took on a quoting quality once more and he spoke the words in english so the stupid woman could understand that someone was either playing a massive prank on him,
"Those named here are my bitches.
Dance. Dance bitches.
Dance.
With Love, Fate
XOXO!"
The old woman looked incredulously back at the Dark Lord, as if trying to discern whether he was making a joke or not. He wasn't.
"...There... are many more words than just that though. Are the others the same?"
Voldemort's tone took on a lecturing quality. Truly, he had been a scholar long before he had begun his profession in meyhem, baby killing, and as a spectacular tattoo artist if he did say so himself. It was no wonder he found himself enjoying teaching the toad-faced crone.
"The engravings go on to say that whosoever's name is listed here must find their soulmate or be doomed to suffer eternal unhappiness. For those who find their soul-mate a simple kiss will forge the bond... after that the words seem to degenerate into a series of onomatopoeia that I assume represent the writer crumbling into helpless laughter."
"...Odd," was the woman's entirely unhelpful response.
Voldemort scoffed. "Useless..."
He almost killed her out of irritation. But no. He was trying to turn over a new Dark Lord Leaf here. He'd lost four fifths his army last time and he wouldn't do himself any favors if he killed one of his last loyalists.
Turning, he strode back to the wall, a long ways before 1981 where Harry Potter's name still shown in a glorious gold.
Most of the names were written in plain black ink. The third and final type of name. These names, unlike the extremely few golden names like Harry and Ginny Potter, and also unlike the greyed out forms of Tabitha Spith and Brophesus Pimnack, had no lines.
Simply put, these ones had not found their respective other. Though that other was somewhere on the list, they had no idea of knowing who.
But the strangest of all. The strangest thing, was that Lord Voldemort himself was listed. Scrolling all the way back to 1926 he found his name. Tom Marvolo Riddle. Plain as day.
Before, he had scoffed at the stupidity of such a room. Of such a notion that a soul bond could contain the greatest power. That was before Harry Potter had killed him a second time. After that, Voldemort was ready to jump on Dumbledore's hippy love bandwagon. So he'd been wrong and the dark arts hadn't been all they were cracked up to be. No use crying over spilt crucios. If something was no longer good enough to be of use than you discarded it. When confronted with the Priori Incantatem that had rendered his wand useless against Potter, Voldemort had discarded it. Simple as that.
Now the dark arts themselves obviously, were not good enough. Love had proven itself stronger. Dumbledore was right. And Lord Voldemort had always loved strength. So, time to harness some lovin.'
At the moment, Harry Potter was king. Not for long.
Honestly Voldemort was really getting sick of the boy. Well. Man now. Potter was well on his way to becoming the best defense teacher Hogwarts had ever had, and even had three children to boot. Even Voldemort had to admit the boy had shown impressive aptitude for dueling seven years ago at the battle of Hogwarts.
Of course if that had been the boy's only advantage then the Dark Lord would not have perished.
No.
Potter had Ultimate Power. Soul bonds were cool like that, apparently.
Voldemort sighed. If only he'd known. Fifty years... wasted on an inferior ultimate power. If only he'd known sooner that real power came from the exchange of saliva and mattress mambo!
Ah yes. Lord Voldemort was truly a romantic at heart.
While Potter had been basking in his godhood for the past seven years Voldemort, however, had only just returned to the realm of the living thanks to his single remaining Horcrux and that fool Flamel's idiocy in not actually destroying the Philosopher's Stone all those years ago. His Soul completely restored, and his body entirely human save for his red pupils as it had once been, Voldemort could now go about building new Horcruxes at his leisure until he had the full circle again. And this time, nothing fancy. Nothing that would stand out.
He'd learned from those stupid mistakes. No bloody founder's items for him. Hell he was considering killing Umbridge and making a Horcrux out of that pink rag she called a scarf.
… No. No couldn't do that. He didn't think a part of his soul would be willing to stay in the hideous fabric.
The hard truth that he had to live with was that Harry Potter had bested him. No lying, no beating around the bush. Lord Voldemort had been 'vanquished by a power that he knew not,' and even if he made a hundred Horcruxes he had no doubt now that Harry –light cursed boy!– would somehow manage to find every one of them. Again, the boy had the ultimate power.
A Soul Mate.
All Voldemort's years of work! All his toil and trouble to become the most powerful magical being in all the world and for what?! To find that Harry Bloody Potter could find a lucky bitch. Bone her. And then subsequently beat the shit out of all of Lord Voldemort's armies and eighty-plus years of experience.
Well. Fuck that.
If Harry could do it, then so could the greatest Dark Lord that had ever lived!
Now, he just had to find the bloody woman. One simple kiss and they would, of course, be bonded. Then he would happily be able to kill whoever the cursed wench was and reap the benefits of PHENOMENAL COSMIC POWER!
Or... so he hoped. Knowing his luck he'd have to keep the shrew alive for the power to work. Dammit.
Here, deep within the heart of the Department of Mysteries, which might as well have been renamed "The Department of Secrets Free for Anyone to Take!" considering how easily he'd broken in, Voldemort stared at the fabled Wall of Souls and contemplated.
He had a Horcrux, which was okay for now, and making more wouldn't ever be a problem thanks to the shiny red stone in his pocket. So Immortality, and quite luckily youth were no longer problems. Yes, Potter probably could destroy the horcruxes he made in the future but at the moment Lord Voldemort had the element of surprise again. All he had to do was get this Soul Bond business under way before Potter found out he was still alive. So, a checklist.
Checklists were always smart ways to do things. The Dark Lord nodded to himself, congenially stroking his own ego. This would be one of the most pleasurable dark rituals he had ever participated in. A win win, as it were.
So first things first.
Step 1) Analyze and collect Black Ink Names from the Wall of Souls.
Step 2) Eliminate male names. Note: Fate is Sexist. None of these golden pairs are lesbian or gay. Safe to assume Lord Voldemort's Soulmate is a woman.
Step 3) Kiss Bitches.
Step 4) Hanky Panky? (Optional. Yet highly advised. Current Virginity status remains a problem.)
Step 5) Destroy the Land of Ozz. Cuz fuck that place. The Wizard was a damn Muggle at that.
Step 6) Kill Harry Potter once and for all!
Step 7) (Mad laughter? I think yes.)
Oh his plans were shaping up so nicely!
Nearby a floating piece of parchment and accompanying magical pen had already been recording the names that were in near proximity to his own.
He had a soulmate. She was alive. And she was the key to more power than Voldemort could possibly imagine.
All he had to do was find her. And kiss her.
He glanced over the list of names and found that the pen had been quite diligent reaching all the way into the 1950s.
Then, to his horror, a single name seemed to scream out from the page for his attention. A name so horrifying he couldn't imagine it. Couldn't even think on it.
No. If this was the one than he did not deserve ultimate power. If this woman was his soul mate and the only way to defeat Harry Potter once and for all then there would be no defeating Potter. Voldemort would toddle away, quietly fading into memory.
"Avada Kedavra!"
Delores Umbridge fell dead at the pedestal.
Voldemort's eyes turned, frantically looking to the year 1956. Delores name was there, black ink showing her name and personal crest.
In moments the name faded falling into a shady mist, and then grew dirty and clouded. A line appeared stringy and broken flowing back... back...
And thankfully stopping at the name Firenze in 1943.
Voldemort laughed, and joyously wiped the sweat off his forehead. The plan was still a go!
As he was, in fact, a mortal, he could not hear the sound of Fate laughing her fucking ass off. He would never know that even as he stared up at the wall she was playing the greatest practical joke in history.
END (FOR NOW)
Author's Notes:
Okay okay. This admittedly came from noting the difficulty I'm having making my own Soul Bond fic feel right. There's a longrunning deus ex machina in the form of a mythic book that holds people fated to be soul bonded. I've seen it in many fics during my time reading Harry Potter and other fandoms.
But this one in particular:
"One Hundred and Forty Nearly Twelve" by Broomstick Flyer
really had me laughing right from the start.
Honestly I'm not opposed to a kiss starting a romance that could last for eternity. I'm not opposed to a kiss of destiny. Honestly I'm not even opposed to the idea that a kiss could start a soul bond. But the idea that there is a list of people just SITTING THERE waiting to be read in which if these people kiss they will instantly be married in the eyes of society and instantly be OKAY with the fact that they've suddenly changed station in life completely, not to mention fallen head over heels in love, is almost ludicrous.
And yet I'm writing a soul bond story a single tab away in which the soul bond is going to play a key role in the battle against Voldemort even as we speak.
I'm such a bloody hypocrite.
No offense is intended to Broomstick Flyer whatsoever in the crafting of this story. The opening paragraph of his story merely spawned this idea, and it is meant to be silly. I have not yet read "One Hundred and Forty Nearly Twelve" and I have every intention of doing so in the hope that the (probable) soul bond between H/HR will not be every bit as gimmicky as my earlier paragraph sounds.
If it is then I will happily lambaste the fic indirectly in later chapters of this crack fic.
Would you believe I actually have a damn plot in mind for this...?
Ridiculous.
Anywho. I thought it was funny.
Cheers! Drop a review if ya feel like it! New Error of Soul will be out within the week!
Ja!
MB