Author's Note: Starting this chapter, the rating for Lorelei is getting bumped up to the eventual "M" that I mentioned in the beginning for… um. *coughs* Well. 0:D Furthermore, there will only be two more chapters after this one—I wanted to write a short story that was somewhat abstract and vague, but detailed enough for readers to piece together on their own—a fairy tale that didn't give everything away. Last chapter will very much be rated "M." *facepalms* You've been warned~
On a side note for names: "Harry" is the English version of the French "Henri," which has its roots in the German "Heinrich"—and the name "Heinrich" also plays another important role, which is obvious once you get to the citation at the end of the chapter. ;)
Chapter Three.
Tom Riddle sat sprawled comfortably over the window seat that remained tucked away in the corner of his rooms, lashes lowered as he watched the people of the small German town go about their business on the streets below. It was just past two in the afternoon, and the wizard had been awake since he had gotten back the night before.
His mind whirled with thoughts, considerations, musings that never made their way past the thoughtful glaze of his hooded eyes. Tonight would make a second night, the second gift: and Tom did not know what he might be able to give that would win the lorelei's regard. All he had taken within him during his trip over the Continent were some clothes, some money, several books that he hadn't been able to read while attending school, and his two Horcruxes—the diary and the locket. The locket he had given away last night since he had been very limited in his options, and he wouldn't risk giving away the second Horcrux to the siren; besides, what was unique about giving over a second piece of one's soul when the recipient already had been given the first?
Tom was very limited on options—and on time.
The young wizard sighed softly and pinched the bridge of his nose as he allowed his eyes to fall shut: thinking, thinking, scrabbling through plots and schemes and thrown-away contemplations regarding what it was that he could give to the siren that would make this courting game worthwhile in the end. Anything haphazard and not thought-out would be immediately rejected. And if that happened… well, the wizard knew that there would be no second chances.
It was strange, though, finding himself at odds in such a way: never before had he put much stock in other wizards and witches' regard—finding the quality of their intelligence and of their blood substandard, not fit to match his own pedigree. They were all droll and dull, and Tom found himself bored to tears in most of his daily conversations with his peers. There was no challenge, no spark, no true interest—and that was what made his interactions with the lorelei so… intriguing.
The creature wasn't even human and yet he found himself drawn.
Why..?
Tom sighed once more and roughly scrubbed his hands over his face, forcing himself to wipe away the confusion and the twisted desire, the craving that settled low in his belly as a possessive intent caressed over his nerve endings. He wanted, almost desperately so, and that want left Tom leery of this game that he had entered into. And yet… Yet.
Yet Tom couldn't find it within himself to pull out of the game.
And thus, the wizard was still left with the problem of deciding upon what it was that he would present to the green-eyed beauty tonight. With the hours trickling on by, Slytherin's Heir knew that he was slowly being pressed for time: but, still, was caught in the dilemma of trying to decide on what he might be able to present to the siren.
Eventually, however, the teen put aside his various ruminations and instead unfolded himself from his lazy sprawl to change quickly into some Muggle clothes, well-dressed and without a wavy hair out of place, and headed down to the streets below so that he might search for a bookstore—and, with any luck, some answers.
Once upon a time, Tom read with a sneer—for no Muggle fairy tale could start without that particular phrase. Once upon a time, there was a woman whose hate and love were both so equally strong that she died of the poison created from the two emotions, the ardor and the despondency slowly eating away at her sanity, feelings that curdled darkly within her and came to a crux when she finally threw herself off from the rock that borders the Rhine. Her name was Lorelei.
Disgusted with his findings—what little they were—Tom finally snapped the book shut and placed it back upon the shelf, glancing away in annoyance. The stories that he had found all had to deal with the legends around the lorelei, and none of the tales were applicable to his immediate situation.
For one thing, all previous lorelei were—apparently—female.
This thought was enough to make Tom snort slightly in derision for, after all, his particular lorelei was most assuredly not. But that then begged the question: Why? Why was the siren that called so strongly to him different from all the others that he had spent the day reading about? There were no answers, however, and the wizard knew that it would be unusual to have them coming at all: he hated having to think on his feet but it seemed as if he had no other choice in this particular situation.
And Tom still didn't know what it was that he could gift the lorelei with.
He scowled then, giving the books his dirtiest glare.
"Guten Tag," came a voice that suddenly intruded on the wizard's foul mood; the bookstore's clerk greeted Tom with a slight smile as the other man finally wandered over to the wizard—the wizard who had been going through the books on the town's legendary siren for the past hour or so.
"Guten Tag," Tom answered, his own 'good afternoon' rather curt and clipped. He glanced at the clerk from the corner of his gaze and then looked away; dismissing the mousy man, the dark-eyed teen turned and headed towards the door to the small shop, intending to just leave and wander about until sundown—hoping, perhaps, to come up with an idea regarding the second gift.
However, the shopkeeper reached out and stopped Tom from leaving completely with the hand upon the teen's arm—stilling him with a surprisingly firm hold. The Brit's lip curled slightly in disgust, and the German man, in return, just smiled jovially though his eyes were shockingly hard, like granite.
"Try this one," the man murmured his suggestion, offering a slim volume of German poetry to the youth. His fingers remained wrapped around Tom's forearm until the wizard finally caved and took the book from the Muggle (or was he a Muggle? Tom wasn't quite sure, not anymore). Relinquishing his hold on the dark-eyed teen, the man left to putter about in a different area of the shop, which then left Tom to his own devices.
The black-haired Brit frowned down at the tome before silently sighing and flipping open the cover to page to the table of contents. When he got to the page in question, however, Tom did have to admit that his interest was piqued: there was a poem titled "Die Lorelei." A dark gaze roamed over the poem, a slight frown tugging his lips downwards, but Tom's roving attention stopped and slowed and contemplated one particular stanza of the poem.
Den Schiffer im kleinen Schiffe
Ergreift es mit wildem Weh;
Er schaut nicht die Felsenriffe,
Er schaut nur hinauf in die Höh'.
Silently, he translated the poem's lines within his mind, mouth slipping into a moue of thought and consideration as, perhaps, an idea came to him—dangerous, truly, but Tom knew that at the very least his diary guaranteed his immortality, so… He shook his head and banished the worry from his mind.
In his little boat, the boatman
Is seized with a savage woe,
He'd rather look up at the mountain
Than down at the rocks below.
There was very little that he could do, otherwise.
Light slipped away slowly and made room for the night, darkness creeping slowly across the land as Tom stood comfortably atop the crest of the Lorelei rock, watching absently as moonlight danced over the crests of the waves below. His fingers traced idly over the railing that stood between him and the plummet towards Death, and most people would be second guessing themselves right about now—but Tom remained firm.
He smiled, though, as he picked up the whisper-silent steps of his siren.
"Guten Abend," the wizard murmured quietly as his fingers curled slightly over the rough metal of the rail. It was flimsy, nowhere near as strong enough to support the weight of a fully grown man if he—perhaps—decided to lean upon the barrier. The smile that Tom gave to that particular thought was a crocodile's one.
"Guten Abend, Liebling," came the siren's easy response, and Tom glanced over his shoulder to meet emerald-bright eyes, a pitch-black head tilted slightly in curiosity—maybe wondering why it was that Tom was up here when he typically favored being much closer to the shore. To the wizard's smug satisfaction, however, the lorelei was comfortably wearing Salazar Slytherin's locket about his neck with the gold still gleaming silver beneath the gaze of the moon high above. "You came again—coming to me without hearing my song."
The statement was threaded through with curiosity; perchance, as well, Tom heard an undercurrent of appreciation, of gladness, at the frank statement. It was hearing that subtle thread of emotion that the wizard knew that tonight's gift was the right one.
"I had a rather difficult time coming up with tonight's gift," Tom admitted in a strange surge of honesty. "I own very little, consider even less truly valuable. The locket around your neck is actually one of my most valued possessions. What I have left with me are mostly trinkets—small things that are easily replaced."
The siren's mouth curved in a small, knowing smile. "So you have no gift for me?"
"No, I do," Tom answered in a low voice, a quiet chuckle twining through his words. The lorelei said nothing to this statement, however, instead just cocking his dark head further to the side—and waited. Continuing, the wizard said, "You and your family—lorelei and the other sirens—sing and humans respond; they can't help themselves, so immersed are they in your songs. I'm correct in thinking this, am I not? So this is my gift to you: Knowledge that your song enchants me, but will not kill me. You will never have to fear causing my death."
The green-eyed boy's mouth pursed in thought, gaze dark as he eyed Tom from beneath velvet-thick lashes, and finally lips parted to tentatively trill several sweet, crystal-fine notes that echoed hauntingly over the water of the Rhine.
With hellfire-tainted eyes, Tom smiled slowly and allowed his body to lean precariously against the too-weak railing; it broke beneath his weight and the wizard went tumbling over the cliff's edge to fall towards the rocks and the churning surf below.
Even as he fell, Tom's gaze remained upon eyes that were too dark and too full of knowledge in an otherwise youthful face: this was a scene that the lovely creature had seen many times before, this was a scene in which the siren already knew the ending of.
The only difference, though, would come with Tom's gift:
His survival.
Tom awoke to darkness and warmth and the gentle lapping of water against a shore. There was the familiar tang of the river, the scent that he associated with underground caverns from all of his time spent in the Chamber of Secrets, and there was, as well, the comfortable scent of a foreign sort of spice: unrecognizable, despite the years of Potions that the wizard had had while attending Hogwarts.
There was a weight, too, tucked against his side, and it stirred with feline grace as the teen's eyes slowly opened. "You are a rather foolish sort of mortal," his siren's voice whispered huskily against the delicate curve of Tom's ear. The teen shivered and reached out through the ebon-dark to curl his fingers over the lorelei's waist.
"Words wouldn't have been enough for the second gift. Undeniable proof needed to accompany the claim," Tom murmured tiredly, once more closing his eyes so that he could perchance slumber for a bit longer with the comfortable weight of the siren's presence at his side.
There was silence for a moment or two, the wizard discovering that he was starting to unconsciously relax while listening to the steady rise and fall of the chest next to his own, but then the siren broke it as he spoke once again: "What is your name, Liebling?"
Tom paused, considering giving the other "Voldemort" as his answer. And yet… that felt like he was cheating for some reason, that the reply wouldn't be as genuine as it could have otherwise been. And yet… and yet. "Tom Marvolo Riddle."
"Tom," the lorelei repeated in a hushed tone, rolling the vowel, the "o," and drawing out the other letters of the wizard's full name until it was something recognizable only to the siren. Tom listened, bemused, but not questioning the apparent ritual. Who knew what the vert-eyed creature thought, musings hidden behind a too-knowing gaze? Eventually, however, the siren sighed quietly and eased up the length of Tom's body to press a surprisingly chaste kiss against the wizard's mouth. "You may call me 'Heinrich.'"
"Your name?" Tom asked, already knowing what the answer would be.
"No," came the siren's—Heinrich's—amused reply. "But if I must have a name, I suppose that it's nice enough." The lorelei chuckled quietly and finally shifted then to settle his full weight over Tom's sprawled body: straddling the wizard, the boy dipped his head down to steal a second kiss.
His tongue coaxed Tom's lips to part, trailing delicately over the edges of the wizard's teeth. He found a small chip that Tom had gotten when he was five or six and had fallen down the stairs after one of the other children had tripped him. Tom had always tried to ignore it whenever his tongue brushed against it, finding it an intolerable reminder of his time at the orphanage, but the fascinated exploration, the attention that the siren paid to it… Tom found himself not minding, not minding at all, and his hands came up to slide into messy, raven-dark hair. He deepened the kiss further and used his hold upon the siren to gain control of the kiss.
It was slow and wet, each finally taking his time with the other, and the magic purred in contentment as it stroked over their skin. It took its time in rising, meandering its way around the pair as it cloaked their bodies with instinctive knowledge, primeval ritual that so few wizards remembered and that the sirens embedded in each of their notes.
The magic ebbed and flowed, and when it suddenly sparked with sharp intent—Tom distracted briefly by the quiet surge that burrowed deep within his belly—the lorelei smiled with cat-like satisfaction and eased a too-pale hand beneath the waistband of Tom's trousers.
Fingers curled possessively around the other's cock, and Tom inhaled softly in both surprise and sudden pleasure at the too-warm sensation of fingers gliding over sensitive skin. His eyes fell shut and his hips arched to meet each stroke—both starkly quiet, however, except for the soft growl that slipped past Tom's lips as he drew the lorelei's head down so that he could bite at the juncture of the boy's throat. Tom marked the siren, teeth scraping and bruising, as the other languidly stroked him to orgasm. Neither happened to be in any rush, and Tom allowed the hungry Mine to purr through his soul as his lips sealed over salt-tinged skin to darken his love bite.
The caresses came leisurely, the body above him rocking in absent pleasure as the lorelei allowed Tom to mark him, and the wizard couldn't help but marvel subconsciously over just how good it felt to have the siren's fingers wrapped around his cock. He'd had lovers, bodies that joined him in bed off-and-on, but never before had such activities felt so sinfully decadent—absolutely perfect in the most intimate of ways.
Minutes later, perhaps hours—time blurred into one endless stream now, with no ending and no beginning as it merged into a long string of "present," of "now"—Tom reached the cusp of pleasure as a muted gasp whispered in a ghost-like kiss against the hollow of Heinrich's throat—
And the lorelei pulled away, body pressing here and there against Tom's shuddering own, and then he felt heatwarmthtoohotwet around his cock, lips wrapping leisurely around his erection—and Tom buried his fingers into pitch-black hair, arching up in masculine, smug satisfaction as he came—
Mine, his soul breathed silently as a tongue traced along the edge of Tom's hip.
Oh, yes, Tom purred back.
* "Die Lorelei" by Heinrich Heine; 1822
Original and translation - poemsintranslation . blogspot. com /2009/ 11/heinrich-heine-lorelei-from- german .html
On a random note: "Die Lorelei" and "Der Erlkönig" (the latter by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe) are my two favorite German poems, and both have been put to music. Awesome renditions of the two poems are available to listen to, and it's fun reading along to the music using both the various translations and the originals. /geek If I feel up to it, I might do my own fairy tale version of "Der Erlkönig," as I am with "Die Lorelei." Maybe. If I'm not being lazy. *laughs*
