Harry Potter Fanfiction: Destined Downfall
" The Boy-Who-Lived – The-Boy-Who-Lied?"
Red eyes glowed amused as they perused the front page of the Daily Prophet.
" Mhm. The Potter Affair: A Country Betrayed. How … catching."
A smirk crossed pale thin lips as the paper was discarded into the flickering flames.
The fire lapped obediently up, ferocious flames devouring the ridiculous waste of good cellulose the wizarding world accepted as newspaper, licking greedily at the insulting if, for once, truthful front page. It was immensely satisfying seeing the terrified and embarrassed visage of the normally arrogant presumed-to-be boy-who-lived getting burned away.
Ah, sometimes one simply has to enjoy the simpler pleasures of life.
Tall and slender, the amused Dark Lord rose from his favourite arm chair which was located in front of the fire place in their spacious bedroom, silky robes as black as the midnight sky flowing down his imposing stature as he crossed the room to stand behind his quiet partner, his red eyes focusing on their own volition on the dainty white hand holding a black-tipped paintbrush.
Triumph rushed through him as his eyes sought out the delicate wedding band placed possessively on his lovers ring finger, a beautiful platinum circle of delicate interwoven leaves and roses, connected by tendrils of white-gold, the roses inlaid with rubies as the leaves veins were nuanced with chips of emerald.
He reached out and tipped his lovers delicately pointed chin up, seeking the absolute love and devotion of those half-lidded emerald-coloured eyes.
There was neither surprise nor apprehension. He hadn't expected fear or dread, but it was always amusing how even the milder reactions often seemed to escape his consort. Some found it disquieting or ominous, avoiding the others lovely presence as much as possible, but Marvolo Slytherin was a Dark Lord; he was used to the powerful and eccentric, traits he couldn't help but admire. And his beloved was certainly blessed with both characteristics in copious amounts.
Letting his loves head drop back down, he settled himself behind his partner, one thin hand possessively pressed against the slight warm swell of the others belly. There, beneath his hand, grew another life within his consorts slender body, a life they had created in the passions of love, their desire and devotion to each other so wild and intense that it sparked into being the prove of their shared love.
Marvolo had never seen himself as a father; he was a Dark Lord. Once upon a time, he had been an abused orphan, a discriminated but charismatic student and unmerciful but driven Lord of the Dark, but never had he entertained the thought of family, of love, of devotion to another being simply because he wanted to be faithful. For the longest time he believed himself incapable of love, thought himself cursed by the circumstances of his conception, punished for his mother's greed and his father's dirty blood. And he had accepted it, had even embraced his inability to connect to those around him and chosen to pursue other avenues … like immortality, one less reason for a heir; why continuing the line if he didn't anticipate ever dying?
But all this, all his resigned beliefs and angry assumptions flew out the window on the day of his resurrection, the day that Regulus Arcturus Black, one of his most devoted followers, introduced the reason for his rebirth and the key to his victory: His blood-adopted son. It was that boy of just eleven who had found the ritual for his rebirth, and had tweaked it in such a way that it neither required physical sacrifices of his followers or enemies nor left him deformed in a bastardized facsimile of life. He had been furious upon finding out that the boy was a Potter by birth, and even more once he saw those hauntingly coloured eyes.
The same eyes who had looked so apologizing at him as their bearer banished him.
His followers had been shocked to hear that the boy smiling shyly at their enraged Lord was the one responsible for his downfall, but even more so once the delicate lilting voice of the boy announced to them that he was a living horcrux and as such guaranteed the survival of their Lord. If the little thing hadn't shocked him so, he would have cursed it into insanity for the audacity of exposing his most treasured secret. But he didn't. There was just something about him, something so enticing that Marvolo had foregone torture and death and instead delved deep into the child's chaotic mind. There he had been the stunned and mad as hell witness to the cruelty of the boys birth parents once his older twin brother was mistakenly declared the Boy-Who-Lived, Marvolo's supposed defeater, he had seen negligence, abuse and borderline mental-torture, loneliness and hopelessness, had seen how Regulus had secretly taken the boy away at the request of his followers own older brother who was the boys godfather and still unable to act, lived through the memory of how the young Heir Black blood-adopted the remarkable boy; he saw as the child realised his gift, his burden and twisted his destiny to his liking.
This terrible terrible gift.
It was awe-inspiring.
The Dark Lord that resurfaced from the mind of his once-upon-a-time-downfall was a changed man. He declared the child off-limits, to be his chosen consort once the boy was fifteen and therefore of marriage age, and didn't even blink once that delicate boy curled into his new body, embracing the child as naturally as he took breath and allowing the cuddling even while he cursed his snivelling followers incompetence, the beautiful boy not batting an eyelash at the resulting screams.
The perfect consort for a perfect Dark Lord.
Yes, Marvolo thought looking down at the silky black tresses tumbling in wild curls over his loves shoulders, he never believed in love and family until his beloved whirled into his life and gave him everything he ever wanted.
He had no idea how to be a parent, but he had also no idea how to love, and love he did. He loved his consort, and he loved, however strange and sentimental it may sound, the tiny bug growing within his lover more than words could describe.
They were his one true weakness.
" It seems that the cattle is now aware of who the one to defeat me truly was."
He watched as red, bright and glistening wet, joined black.
" Quite a few of your parents acquaintances suddenly remember the quiet little boy that someday just disappeared, their second child. The ignored twin. Questions are being asked, pressing questions the Potters apparently are unable to answer."
A light grey gave life to black, adding shadows and nuances.
" Wizarding Britain is searching for the lost son. The public cries for little Harry Potter, their true saviour, to once again save them."
Marvolo grinned at the small snort that elicited from his lover.
" Speculations are running high: What happened to him? Was he kidnapped? Brought to the continent to secretly train? Or something more sinister? Why the lies? Why the cover-up? Where is he know? Questions over questions, a public outcry of outrage. And your parents remain silent."
Hazelnut-brown was added. A soft cream colour followed.
" Whatever will the cattle do, now that they are searching so desperately for their one true saviour?"
The paintbrush stilled and one dainty hand laid over the long-fingered thin one he had splayed over his lovers swelling belly.
Marvolo relished in the soft warmth of that small appendage.
" I'm no one's saviour", came the whispered reply.
Marvolo settled his chin upon his loves head, humming in agreement.
The paintbrush continued steadily.
" Many things I may be, but saviour is not among them", his lover continued softly, the lilting voice breathy but steady. Firm and unforgiving. Arousing. " Consort, Lover, Beloved. Son, Nephew, Mother to be. Devoted to my lord, seer at his discretion. Saviour is not among them."
Marvolo smiled.
It was true.
White was added. White which was tainted by red.
Breathtaking.
" Sheep they are, and shepherd you will be. Tables are turning, and colours are mixing. White to Black, Black to White, Grey a bridge between them. The blind are beginning to see the grey in the old goats coat, and with every eye opening a speck of the white paint flaks off. And when the blind see, the seeing will have to answer. Some will preserve, some will drown, some will thrive. You will stand above them all, the seeing who always guided the blind to truth, no matter how ugly it was. I never doubted that my trust could be misplaced. You were the only option, from the moment the wheels of fate began to spin this story, and with every spin that unfolds we are nearing destinies victory."
" You always trusted me."
" Yes."
" Am I so worthy in your eyes?"
Marvolo truly couldn't see it. He couldn't see where his beloved's faith in him came from, for his other half's faith even existed before Marvolo had shown him that he was worth that kind of devotion. It was always there, as if his love had just waited for the one worthy of bestowing it upon to finally appear.
And even with all the confidence and arrogance of a Dark Lord, Marvolo was humbled by this faith.
A bell-like laugh rang through the room. He could feel his magic resonating.
" You are the only one worthy."
Dark Lord he was, but no torturing or killing could give him the absolute joy and elation his love was gifting him with such few words. He knew he was blessed, because there could be no other reason for the happiness he was allowed to enjoy, despite all his sins, sins he felt no remorse for; he was blessed with love and family, something he had thought he had learned very early on just were not to be for him.
" Then it is only right that I alone will ever be granted your love."
Marvolo smiled as his consort completely melded into him.
He may be old and eccentrically insane, but he still had it in him.
Take that, old goat-fucker. Who's the old lonely virgin now?
He knew that there was no one and nothing that could ever be more important than this moment. He was at home, with his love and their unborn child, and all his goals where but a breath away from completion.
Dark soft bristles dipped into dark orange.
" We are nearly there."
Bright green was delicately added.
A dainty finger brushed over his hand.
" Yes", came his lovers verbal confirmation.
Matter of fact. No infliction. A given. No question.
" I will win."
The fire sizzled and cracked, and Marvolo enjoyed the moment. He didn't need the small agreeing nod of his love but it nevertheless warmed his heart to feel it.
" Thank you."
" What for?", Marvolo asked slightly confused.
He was the one who should be giving his thanks, not his lover.
Dark grey dripped down the paintbrush.
" You promised to love and never leave me. You promised to fight for us. You promised me that our child would be born into a world free of the lights prejudice and hate", his love whispered gently, dainty fingers gripping his hand tightly, holding it in place. " Thank you for keeping your promises."
Marvolo tightened his grip on the small fingers woven between his own.
" I'm yours", his lover breathed lovingly.
" You are mine and I'm yours", he responded just as quietly.
Lifting his head he stared at the drying paint. The canvas before them stood at a small rune-inscribed easel and glistened with wet paint, giving it a nearly animated appearance. An aura of foreboding encased the finished painting.
His smile curved into a smirk as he took in the scene his love had created. Death. Destruction. Fire. … Victory.
The Dark's Victory.
His Victory.
Slowly he stood up, taking care to be gentle with his precious consort nestled tightly against his chest. Times were changing, and he knew that this time he was the one winning everything on the table.
He had gambled. And he had won.
The light searched for the true boy-who-lived, unknowing of how the one they staked all their hope of his second defeat on was slumbering lightly against the chest of their greatest enemy, bound in mind, body, soul and heart through vows of marriage, a love so deep it was like an unbreakable chain binding two souls together for eternity and a child that would be born out of pure love into a peaceful world. They had no idea that Harry Potter was officially dead, that he died at the age of four through the abuse of his family and timely intervention of his desperate godfather who preferred to lose him to a life on the Dark Side than to lose him to death, and that Harrison Regulus Slytherin nee Black, secondary heir to the Black Lordship, was Lord Voldemort's devoted seer and Marvolo Salazar Slytherin's loving and faithful consort.
They didn't know … that they had already lost.
Lost before the game ever began.
He looked back at the painting, back at the very prove of his victory. It may not have happened yet, but the moment his Harrison's eyes glazed over and his paintbrush started to paint, letting arise on a blank white canvas what his mind's eye saw with deciding clearity, like he was possessed by higher beings who sang within his blood, the outlet of his visions created the future to be … the future that would take place. It wasn't a mere possibility. When Harrison painted, he painted the absolute truth. It was a decided path. It was unavoidable.
Destiny had spoken.
And it had destined his Victory.
~ The End ~