Cantil: Hey guys, I just wanted to say thanks to everyone who reviewed. It put a smile on my face and I never expected anyone to like this story enough to review, but thank you all. Enjoy the next chapter!
Summary: What would happen if Lord Voldemort and Pitch Black met? Perhaps love? Will the Guardians ruin everything for Pitch once again?
Last chapter:
What Pitch failed to notice until the last-minute, is that Voldemort was no longer looking at his followers. He was looking right at Pitch, with a frown obscuring his beautiful face.
Pitch swallowed nervously. There's no way he can see me while I'm in the shadows, right? Pitch asked.
The Moonlight's Ruin
Chapter 3
Pitch sighed in relief when Voldemort looked away from him, gave his followers orders, and dismissed them with a glare. He moved to the side, and watched as Voldemort left the room. Pitch shrugged and followed quietly behind him, careful not to get too close.
Voldemort went into the room that Pitch had checked out earlier. Pitch had barely enough time to get through the door before it closed behind him. He watched Voldemort as he took off his heavy black robes and threw it over the chair by the fireplace, leaving him dressed in black slacks and a white dress shirt.
Pitch couldn't pry his gaze away from the sight of him. He was beautiful. majestic even, and Pitch simply couldn't get enough of him. He sighed wistfully however, he didn't notice that he was no longer out of the shadows until Voldemort cleared his throat.
Pitch snapped out of his trance, and looked up, meeting the eyes of the Dark Lord. Red met gold in a battle of dominance. There's no way he can see me. But Pitch knew he was in fact being seen, when Voldemort took out a wooden stick and pointed it at Pitch's chest.
Voldemort's eyes flashed in recognition. "You're the guy who was lost in the woods, aren't you?" It wasn't a question, and he said it mockingly. Pitch scratched his head in embarrassment, and nodded.
"How did you get in here?" Voldemort asked suspiciously.
"Um...Through the door?" Pitch couldn't believe it. He sounded like a weak, stuttering, Teenager. This made him wince slightly. No one had ever made him act like this. Pitch didn't know what to do or what to say.
"I can see that, but this place isn't accessable to outsiders due to magical wards, so I will ask you again, how did you get in?" Voldemort demanded, but Pitch was too busy looking towards his stick in understanding.
"So that's what that is. Magic," Pitch glanced at Voldemort in awe, "The door was open so I just came in." He explained carefully, almost as an afterthought.
"The door was open." Voldemort sighed tiredly. "I knew my followers were idiots, but I thought they at least knew how to close a door properly." Pitch shrugged, and plopped himself on Voldemort's bed uninvited, Voldemort's wand still trained on him.
"Well, are you going to tell me why you are here or am I going to have to guess?" Voldemort asked. When Pitch didn't answer, Voldemort continued. "If you have no business here then I will kindly have to ask you to leave."
Pitch's heart sank at the thought. He had to stay. He just had to. His mind raced as he tried to think of something. He looked up at Voldemort, who patiently waited while Pitch contemplated his options.
"I want to join you." He finally proclaimed confidently. Voldemort lowered his wand in surprise.
"And what can you offer me? What power do you posses that could make me want you as a follower?" Voldemort conjured a black chair, sat in front of Pitch and gazed at him appraisingly.
Pitch flinched at the word 'follower', but otherwise showed no reaction to his words. He realized it would take a while to go up in follower ranks, but Pitch thought it was worth it. As for power? Well, that was a touchy subject for Pitch.
Yes, he possessed his ability to hide in the shadows and his sand seemed to work fine, but ever since his defeat Pitch hasn't been able to control his nightmares and he was afraid that he never would. For without fear Pitch was almost useless when powers were involved. This thought made Pitch glare hatefully at the wall across from him.
He really hated the guardians with a passion. They took everything away from him, and now they were going to take Voldemort away from him too, because no one wanted a weak follower who was a nuisance.
Pitch sighed, but decided to tell Voldemort of what he could do instead of dwelling on his past mistakes. His face grew determined and his eyes hardened in resolve. He looked up at Voldemort, gold eyes meeting red confidently.
"I have various shadow powers," Voldemort looked as if he wanted to interrupt, but Pitch held up a hand to stop him, "This 'gift' allows me to travel great distances through shadows, and I can literally become a shadow making me unable to be touched or seen unless I deliberately make myself known. I can also create any weapon out of a black sand substance that I perfected over the years." He explained almost bitterly.
He liked his powers, but sometimes he wished he didn't need fear just to use most of them. He wanted to tell Voldemort of his ability over his nightmares, but didn't know if he should. He decided too at the last-minute. He didn't want any secrets between them.
"I have one other ability that I know of." Pitch admitted quietly, not daring to look Voldemort in the eyes in fear of what he might see there. Would there be disappointment? Contempt? Would he shun him?
Just one look. Come on, you know you want too. Pitch sighed. Yes he wanted to, so badly. Do it! Pitch took a deep breath, and slowly looked up at Voldemort. And almost gasped at what he saw. Voldemort's face was alight with excitement, and his eyes shone brightly. Pitch didn't expect this reaction.
"What of the other ability?" Voldemort asked, his excitement showing in his voice before he managed to look indifferent and uncaring.
"To understand this power you must first understand how my power works. I can...could create nightmares shaped as black horses with golden eyes. They are manifestations of fear, for fear is what I thrive on. They're corrupted pleasant dreams that are pulled from the minds of sleeping children and adults for me to control." Pitch grew wistful as he explained this. He missed this power.
"What do you mean you could create them? Why can't you now?" Voldemort asked curiously in a demanding sort of way.
Pitch sighed. Of course he would ask that. "I was hoping you wouldn't ask that. It's a long story." Pitch tried in vain to get Voldemort uninterested, and ran a hand through his hair.
"I've got time." Voldemort replied tersely. Pitch looked away from the penetrating red gaze in defeat, and began the long explanation on how he lost, and why he ended up in the Forbidden Forest on the day they met. After his explanation Pitch waited in a tense silence for Voldemort's response on the matter.
"Can you get them back," At Pitch's confused look, Voldemort elaborated. "Your powers over the nightmares. Can you get them back?" He asked.
"I don't know." Pitch admitted feebly. "Maybe, but it will take time to gain control over them again. When I came into the Forbidden Forest they stopped following me, and I don't know why. I need fear to control them though."
"I suppose we'll just have to create some then, won't we?" Voldemort smiled mysteriously. Pitch's head snapped up in shock.
"Does that mean I can join you?" Pitch asked, barely daring to hope. Voldemort sighed.
"Yes, Pitch. It means you can join me." Voldemort was surprised when Pitch shot forward and hugged him tightly in thanks.
"Thank you so much. You have no idea how happy you've made me." Pitch said sincerely. Voldemort nodded.
"You can stay in one of the extra rooms I have, and then tomorrow we will talk more about my war and your powers." Voldemort ushered Pitch out of the room and closed the door behind him. Leaving Pitch alone to find a room.
Pitch smiled brightly as he practically skipped down the hall to a spare room with white sheets covering everything. He barely looked at the room he chose as he plopped down head first on the bed, too tired to remove the dusty sheet.
That night, Pitch fell asleep with a smile on his face for the first time in a long time.
- To be continued -