Nope, not mine.


Once more, his thoughts returned to Harry Potter. He could not help but recall the way his eyes – a green beyond definition and human description, beyond any known language – blazed with defiance and rage. His mind strayed to the thought of his dark, messy hair: what did it feel like? What it coarse or soft or greasy? What would it feel like to run his hands through that mess? And his lips, thin but pink and delectable! His body was a bit scrawny and thin, but the boy's petite stature appealed to him. He imagined the sense of power and dominance he would feel at having Potter under him, cowering under the full extent of his might. Or no, intimidated and cowed, yes, but not cowering. Potter was not some weak, mindless, craven fool; he would fear but he would still fight. After all, part of Potter's appeal is his fire.

But no! What was he thinking? This is Potter, the bane of his existence, the prophesied man-child who would defeat him, the so-called savior. Moreover, even if Potter weren't those things, he is still a 16-year-old child! Despite all of his depravity, sadism, and lack of morality, Lord Voldemort was no pedophile.

These feelings and fantasies were aberrations. The last time he lusted was in 1958, when he was nearing his thirties. And even then, he had only preferred women rather than men. Although…he could see the appeal of dominating a man…

Voldemort growled and shook those thoughts away. He stood from his armchair situated before the fireplace and strode out the room.

He really needed to torture something. Preferably something with black hair and green eyes.