Wow, I've finished two fics today. Amazing. I simply cannot believe it... the down side (because whenever I'm productive, there's always a down side) is that my internet connection wasn't working when I originally finished 'em. Damn.
Anyway, without further ado, my... fic; Sleep Off Reason
Title: Sleep Off Reason.
Pairing: HP/LV
Warnings: I think I used the word 'damn' somewhere there. A little bit of slash. References to sexual content.
Summery: Life was always better with Harry.
Disclaimer: I had a wonderful dream where I was the owner of Harry Potter. But then I woke up.
Sleep Off Reason
For Harry, death was not painful. It was a split moment after two muttered words, then nothing. There was no trace of laughter on his face, no evidence of the tan he had acquired after years of outdoor work, and no emotion. He was simply gone with something akin to a smile grazing his lips.
For Voldemort, death had been painful. Not his own, for he hadn't died yet, but Harry's. The boy who had captured a long time in his life, causing him frustration and his first downfall. Seeing the boy die should have been a pleasurable experience. No more interference from the boy, jibes about the boy's continuous defeat of the Dark Lord and no more nights spent getting sucked into the dreams of the easily aroused adolescent.
But it wasn't a pleasurable experience. It was terrifying.
Never before had Voldemort lost such a large part of his life. His followers all came and went, but the boy had been special. They had spent years battling each other, ever since the child was a mere baby. Now that that boy had gone, Voldemort found his life somewhat more... indescribably empty. Something was missing.
"My Lord? We've captured the mudblood," Lucius drawled, striding into the throne room, his dark robes following, no doubt made from the finest of materials. Voldemort himself would never waste so much gold on that sort of material good, no matter how much galleons he had (which was, undoubtedly, a lot). His days at the muggle orphanage had taught him well.
Voldemort could easily feign interest, but he needn't too. He gave a small 'hm' of satisfaction, but otherwise ignored his loyal, yet slippery Death Eater.
"Shall I bring her in?" he asked. Voldemort thought it about it for a moment, did he really want to see the best friend, a mudblood, of the boy who now haunted his days and nights? Did he want the reminder that the young man would never ruin a well thought plan ever again? No, not really.
"Leave," he said quietly. Lucius shot him a curious look, disbelief evident in his cold grey eyes. Voldemort gained an overshadowed feeling of amusement when the idle thought that no one had ever told that to Lucius. One might have, perhaps... he might have...
"Out!" He barked, unsure whether he was telling Lucius or the thoughts of Harry. Lucius scrambled, still managing to keep his dignity as he hurried out of Voldemort's throne room. As soon as Lucius was out, Voldemort complied to something he had not done for many, many years. Something the young version, the Tom Riddle, would have done; he slouched.
It was pitiful, how he was acting, absolutely pitiful. No matter how many times he would tell himself this... this feeling was brought on by the satisfaction of winning, he could tell that there was more. Winners didn't slouch, or sulk, or lose interest in life. This was not winning. Winning would be the non-stop adrenaline kick that proved the boy was really gone, winning was the hostile take over of the ministry, and the cold-blooded murder of mudbloods. Not this... never this...
"You always did have a knack of doing the opposite of what you were supposed to be doing..." he muttered to himself, envisioning the skinny teens burning eyes and challenging expression, "but it appears your luck has run out."
Silence answered him. A small, traitorous part of him felt disappointment at the lack of response – that small part of him was also regretting killing the Potter boy. Perhaps he should have left him alive... just for the challenge.
No! That would not do. Voldemort dismissed the thought as soon as it entered his head. Potter needed to do. Not just for evading him, but to make an example of Potter's death; if you rebel against me, you will die.
He sighed, knowing that denying his... regret over the boy's death was only going to make him think about the damn child more. And really, he didn't want to think about Potter. That part of his life was over, for better or for worse.
A cackle of thunder drew him out of his thoughts; the dreary London sky was dark and fog-bound. It had been raining on and off for hours, though this was the first appearance of thunder. Outside of his throne room, there was a gasp, a shuffling sound and the door was opening. Nagini slipped inside, her shinning scales wet covered with drying mud, blood and dirt. Voldemort glanced at her questioningly.
"The human-rat put up more of a chase than expected," her tongue flicked out, as though she was licking her lips after a tasty meal, "but I caught him in the end."
Voldemort held out a hand, and Nagini slithered forward to meet that hand. He gently stroked the scaly top of her head.
"You are thinking about that boy again?" Nagini asked, her tongue still flicking out to taste the air. Voldemort hummed in response.
"Perhaps." He murmured. So this is how obvious it was. His weakness. Pathetic. He should be rejoicing with his Death Eaters; planning raids on uncooperative magical families, rewriting laws... and just generally being a nuisance to society. Like he had dreamed of as a child, before he had learned of magic. To think how simple things were back then.
Voldemort stood, leaving his chair and pet with the large 'pop' of apparition. He reappeared moments later in the Riddle House, in a room stacked to the ceiling with books. On a desk in the corner sat a pensieve, dust covered with disuse. He muttered a cleaning spell and sidestepped a stack a books to reach the pensieve, where he drew his wand up to his forward, concentrated on a memory, and pulled the it out of his head. He dumped the whispy substance in the pensieve, and contemplated his situation.
Did he dare to revisit the memory that had been plaguing his mind since Potter's dead, the memory that sent the uncomfortable feeling of guilt washing through his body?
He lowered his head to the pensive.
They were standing in the forest, alone. All the Death Eaters were attacking the castle; the tell tale signs of battle were easily noticeable throughout the cold, dusky night. Potter's face reflected the fire the Death Eaters had started earlier when burning the oaf. Now, the flickering flames cast fleeting shadows across the clearing. The smell of burnt flesh heavy in the air.
Voldemort knew Potter hadn't noticed the what the smell was of. The boy looked far to calm. There was no anger, or fear, or hatred, or sadness on his face. It was blank and void of emotion.
"The Boy-Who-Lived... I always thought that was a rather silly title. I would have chosen 'the boy-who-shouldn't-have-lived." The pensieve-Voldemort murmured.
"It just goes to show the taste you have for names. 'He-who-must-not-be-named, you-know-who or Voldemort. I prefer Tom." Potter's cocky voice said. Pensieve-Voldemort hissed at the mention of his common name.
"Do not call me that!" He spat. Potter raised an eyebrow.
"Aren't you childish? Taking over the world because the world once wronged you... changing your name because you shared that name with a father you hated... denying your muggle heritage because of a few bad experiences... need I say more?" Voldemort watched his furious other self aim his wand in Potter's direction.
"Go on, I dare you. Tell me, once I die, what are you going to do?" He hissed. Pensieve-Voldemort simply stared.
"You know... in my first year, you gave me the chance to join you. I think I want to take you up on that offer – leave the Wizarding world to find a new savior." Pensieve-Voldemort laughed humorlessly.
"Why would I, Lord Voldemort, let you, Harry Potter, live?" He asked sarcastically. Potter said nothing, but stepped forward so they were almost touching.
"Because," Potter's lips were ghosting over his own, "we're the perfect team, Tom." Potter closed the distance, crushing his lips against the ones that would, in only moments, utter the words that would end his life.
Pensieve-Voldemort's wand was suddenly pressed against him, his eyes glinting furiously. "I'd warn you not to do that, Potter. My interests lie elsewhere." He said.
"With the dreams you've been having?" Potter mocked.
Something in him snapped. Pensieve-Voldemort pushed his wand to where Potter's beating heart lay, and murmured the words.
Potter's body fell to the ground, lifeless.
The memory ended. Voldemort blinked as his eyes began to tear from staring for so long, remembering the soft feel of Potter's lips (even though he hated every second of their kiss). More than mentally exhausted, Voldemort gracefully trailed his way through the halls of the manor to the room he had occupied as a base the year before. Casting another cleaning spell to get rid of the dust, Voldemort let himself fall on the bed, promising it would only be a small nap. Just to get that damn Potter boy out of his head.
But no matter how much he told himself he did not miss the boy, he simply couldn't shake the feeling that maybe – just maybe – his life would be more interesting chasing the boy. No, not the boy, but Harry. Life was always better with Harry.
And there it is. You can probably tell I hurried at the end... I'm tired. But I have had this ready for so long... it seems like I'm a stronger person now that I've completed it (and updated). Now THAT is a miracle.
I really hate these American laptops. Do you know how many bad habits I get into because Aussie spelling is 'wrong' on this, and I get used to spelling words the American way, then there's a spelling test the next day? Yeah, I should probably just change the language settings... maybe later.