Disclaimer: All belongs to J.K. Rowling. If there is something in a chapter that does not, it will be stated at the bottom of the page.
A/N: I decided to get all my cookies together and make a story out of them. This is a collection of short ficlets that will be updated when I take a break from my bigger pieces.
Enjoy!!
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Chapter One: Blood and Power
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He says that blood is everything…
Blood is power…
Blood is life….
Power…
"It's all about –that-, isn't it?" you had asked him. He merely smiled that sardonic half grin that made your heart pound faster and your lips tremble. You shivered in places that you didn't know could shiver. You shook as he traced a pale finger across the curve of your cheek, coming to a rest at your lips. You trembled when he licked them. Moaned when he probed your mouth.
His fingers were long and thin. Pianist fingers. Those fingers that keyed notes of sweet nothings, the music happy yet dark at the same time. Innocent one minute, dripping with sex and seduction the next. Those fingers held the stopper of life and beginner of death. Those fingers bled as they held thorned blood roses and probed all your secrets.
The oracle was frightening. She had thin black snakes for hair and lips stained pomegranate. Her eyes were pure black, no separation…just liquid pools of melted black stone. Her face was pale, translucent…
Bloodless.
All comes to blood, doesn't it?
The oracle's voice sounded like crystals tumbling across glass. She looked at both of you and smiled, showing small, blackened, pointy teeth and thin trails of blood ran down her chin.
"Together," her voice hissed, weaving around them like ribbons in the wind. "You are powerful." A forked serpents tongue escaped her mouth and licked away the blood on her chin, but more dripped down, falling to the painfully white floor, like snowflakes. "Alone," She hissed. "You are dead."
He paced listlessly around the room as you sat in the middle of the gigantic bed, clad in barely-there ash silk. Your hair, satiny claret locks, contrasted beautifully with the black, like blood soaked snow.
"It's not about blood…it's about power." He muttered angrily and pounded a fist against the wall.
"Blood screaming inside you to work its will." You whisper without thinking. He stops pacing and looks at you. Cobalt and russet locked together. Your heart beats a bit faster as he comes closer to the bed.
Your breathing becomes a bit quicker and you look away from his gaze. His fingers cup your chin and turns your head back to look at him. Your faces are inches apart and it's killing you inside because you want him to touch you.
Kiss you.
Fuck you.
You feel horrible inside, because this is the man (boy) that stole you away from your home, your family. He is the one with the pale fingers that bleed when he holds your thorned roses. Those fingers belong to your psychopathic lover, who's head you can never get inside of to see what he's thinking because he's a whirl of jig saw thoughts.
He kills, tortures, let's his maniacal laughs echo through the world, yet he makes slow, sweet love to you until your trembling and exhausted, asleep in his bed for the day until he rouses you at night with thorny red roses because he claims they remind him of you. Stunning yet unattainable. Reach out and touch, and your hands bleed.
He doesn't know that the roses remind you of him.
He doesn't know that you are supposed to approach him with caution, careful where you place your hands. But whenever you touch him, your hands are bloody and you don't care because he has you on a golden pedestal, out of reach from the world's fingers because you're the world to him. You brought him back and now he claims the world in your honour.
"The oracle said that when the stars fell…" His velvety voice was quiet. "When the stars fell, you would be mine." Your eyes are shimmering with tears and your heart clenches at the devastated look on his face. He thinks that you don't want to be his when all you want is…
Him.
"Forever, Tom?" the wavering voice reaches your ears and he smiles that special smile that's only for you.
"That's the whole point."
His cool lips press against yours and his tongue slips in, duelling with yours for dominance. As his hands slide up your gown, you come to the realization that's been nagging you for two years.
This is what you are now.
You aren't Ginny Weasley, the girl who opened the Chamber.
You aren't Virginia Weasley, the girl who wanted her Tom back as the world decided that the Dark Lord came back.
You're his.
And he is yours.
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Oracle is mine.