Chapter 10:
Harry knew that this was stupid, that he was about to get himself killed, that handing over his wand to a copy cat serial killer was the type of stunt that would lead to his colleagues analysing his body in the morgue.
But the git was right. Harry wouldn't risk never finding Riddle, because this man seemed the type who'd faced the tortures of Azkaban and broken mad beneath the strain, and wouldn't crack and yield anything under Ministerial interrogation. Perhaps under Veritaserum, but who even knew what poor state Tom was in by the blood!
No, he may have had choices, but there was no real acceptable alternative here.
He was led blindfolded, hands tied, somewhere else, his heart lashing against his rib cage and a bad taste in his mouth.
He recognised the magic that coiled around him instantly, insidious, dark, familiar.
He just about stopped his breath from hitching.
"Voldemort..." the words were breathed out of his mouth before he could even think about it.
He took an instinctive step back, only to land on Crouch's foot. The copy cat and Voldemort in one room. "I really hope I'm not marking your first collaborative attempts."
He couldn't see the other, but he could feel him, and maybe that was even worse.
Even on a crime scene it didn't feel this intense. There was excitement, anticipation, a fondness, and most predominantly an edge of obsession at the steel of everything else - all reaching out for him, like a caress of fingers against his mind.
His throat bobbed.
Crouch's grip tightened, forcing him forward, down onto his knees.
There was no immediate response, but cold hands brushed against his face, firming, tilting his head up and baring his throat. Fingers, almost familiar, curved in, exploring and mapping the contours of his face, smoothing across his eyes, and he tried to bite when the pad of a thumb dragged against his lip.
The grip immediately tightened.
"Now now," Voldemort's voice was high and cold, the voice of his nightmares, hardly seeming real as it echoed in his eyes, "no need for that. I'm not going to hurt you, Harry."
"Where's Tom?" he demanded.
"That is not your concern right now."
"Actually it bloody well is. I certainly didn't come here for you," Harry snapped. He felt vulnerable, exposed, unable to see his enemies, and he didn't like it one bit.
What the hell was going on here?
"Rude," the other murmured, softly. "You should mind your manners, before someone else minds them for you."
"What do you want from me?" Harry demanded, after a moment, resisting the urge to swallow.
"Oh, numerous things," Voldemort said, almost dismissively.
"What do you want from me right now?" he clarified, jaw tight. Those fingers moved down, ghosting over his neck, and breath soon followed. Harry's shoulders went rigid.
"A choice," the killer murmured. "I simply want you to make a choice. When I untie you."
"And what's the choice?" Harry questioned, carefully. He would attack when he was untied, and not play along, Voldemort had to know that. He wasn't stupid, Harry could see that from his crimes. That thought did nothing to reassure him now.
"You can kill Crouch and walk free. Or you can walk free and I will find Mr Riddle and kill him instead."
For a second, Harry was convinced that the entire world had frozen and ground to a halt. Voldemort's hands settled on his shoulders, and he just felt utterly sick.
"I refuse."
"Then I will kill Mr Riddle and toss you back on the streets. Barty, today is your lucky day..."
Different hands grabbed him - Crouch's then - starting to haul him back up again, and Harry's heart raced, his mind writhing and twisting.
He'd never killed anyone before.
"Wait," he bit out.
He could practically feel the smugness radiating off Voldemort, and loathed it.
"Yes, Harry?"
"How do I know you'll keep your side of the bargain? How do you know I can kill him, even if I wanted to?"
"There are more ways than an Avada Kedavra to kill a man. I'll leave the methods to your discretion."
Why wasn't Crouch protesting to this? Of course, he knew Voldemort would want the copy cat dead, for tainting his work, degrading it, but...but he'd never expected this.
Bile clawed up his throat.
"We will make an oath on this matter," Voldemort purred.
He resisted the urge to swallow, more than aware that those eyes would be swallowing and devouring every twitch of movement which he made, and instead held a hand out blindly.
"Terms?"
Long fingers curled around his own, brushing rather unnecessarily along the flutter of pulse, dragging down. His mouth felt dry.
"You kill Barty Crouch before leaving this room, and I will let Mr Riddle go, unharmed by this ordeal, immediately upon the murder. You will not attack me, I will not attack you."
Harry wetted his lips, trying to think of any possible flaws in the words, a loophole - anything that would give him advantage or put him at a disadvantage. There was nothing.
Was Voldemort a politician when he wasn't playing Dark Lord?
"Deal," he murmured. The oath was struck. Harry had never felt more sick in his life, however much he was trying to justify all of this to himself. Crouch was a criminal, and if someone had to die here, surely he should make it so that the innocent lived?
His blindfold was taken away, and, for the first time, he got to see the Dark Lord.
Serpentine, scarlet-eyed, tall and thin. Harry very nearly reared back and recoiled immediately at the sight.
Not a man. He wasn't even a man. This was the work of seriously dark magic. A chill ran down his spine, and his blood was crushed ice in his veins.
He stayed rigidly still for a moment, just studying carefully.
Those scarlet eyes burned into his skin in turn, into his brain.
He had a feeling his nightmares just got worse.
"Why are you doing this?" he asked, quietly.
Voldemort's head tilted, and for a second, Harry was convinced he wouldn't answer. He had no reason to, really.
"Numerous reasons."
"Give me one," Harry challenged, jaw clenching.
He received a smile in response, the most terrifying one he'd ever seen in his life, lipless, and...Voldemort wasn't supposed to be physically deformed. He blended. So either his face in everyday life was a glamour, or this one was.
The appearance either way was telling.
"Because I think you'd look beautiful broken."
Harry stared for several long moments, heart hammering, the statement echoing deafeningly in his ears and splintering all of his other thoughts.
The man was insane.
He turned away, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment.
It was just words, not his inevitable sentence, but with the deal he'd just struck, a sense of helplessness crept into his blood nonetheless.
His fists clenched at his sides, and the cuffs on his hands were quickly removed too, his wand tossed back to him.
He wanted to attack more than anything, to obliterate the mind games, and this killer who insisted on stalking his shadow and twisting it to a new shape.
He could see now how easily how he'd been led to this moment, and the simplicity of it was unnerving. Voldemort had used even the copy cat against him, and was now fulfilling his own desires simultaneously in Crouch's death.
Convenient. How bloody convenient.
How could he do this? How the hell could he do this? He didn't want to kill anyone, and with the dark thoughts already brimming in his head, he was terrified of the consequences.
That was probably the point. The consequences. Just another little push until he was like a glass quivering before it shattered, ready for Voldemort's most gentle tap to push him over the edge and fragment beyond repair.
He didn't want to think about it, so he spun, pointed his wand, and cast.
Barty Crash shattered instead.
Tom didn't think he'd ever seen a more exquisite thing in his life.
Of course, he'd been fascinated to see how Harry would choose to commit his murder, but, now that he had, he couldn't imagine it having been any other way.
Reducto. Straight through the chest.
Such a simple, easy way. It was a school-yard spell, and yet, even if Harry didn't seem to realise it or avoided the thought, extremely painful and ruthless in comparison to the Avada Kedavra curse, even if it didn't require the same direct murderous intention. He supposed Harry wasn't quite ready to confront his full potential for darkness. But he didn't mind. He enjoyed it better this way.
Harry's choice was also a repelling curse, like the auror was trying to shove the whole matter away from him as hard as possible, exploding.
His eyes gleamed with delight.
He'd love it when the boy was ready to do it properly, when he too took pleasure in the kill, in the finesse a wand or a scalpel could bring, in the way light faded from eyes and the rush of glorious power that followed with the knowledge that life and death was theirs to command.
They were gods.
But it was after the kill, the aftermath, with a vacant expression of a false idol on the floor, blood everywhere like a most fantastic Jackson Pollock, that the true satisfaction shifts in.
Their emotions blur together like wet water colours, his a hungry crimson, a tongue of flame, devouring the bruised purples and blues of sorrow and violence, the blooming burnt yellow of guilt like sickness, spreading, and the black as the tendrils of his influence draw the other ever closer.
It tastes like perfection on his tongue.
He can see Harry's face crumple, just a little bit, like he's sucked out some of the light in his eyes and claimed it for his own. There's a clench of steel jaw against him, a putting up of fists and shoulders squared in defense and he could wrench the barricades aside so effortlessly right now and spread the boy bare before him in his quivering, fragile mental state.
He doesn't.
Some kills are quick, some meals a hasty dash because something needs to be consumed for consumptions mistakes. But Harry is a delicacy, something to be savoured and relished.
He'll pick him apart slowly, teasing every last drop of emotion and defence, every inch of goodness and morality that covers Harry like he was a pair of shoes that had been meticulously shined all over for the first day of school.
It was funny. Harry's outside was more chaotic than that of Tom Riddle's immaculate dress, but where his own heart and mind were carefully ordered for the finest of destruction, for art, Harry's was a chaotic fingerpainting of life and personality.
Harry was an essentially good person, a moral golden boy and guiding beacon for all things light in the world.
He'd never wanted to ruin anything more than his life.
He stepped forward, once, some more, when Harry still stood frozen, throat bobbing, eyes fixed on the his first intentional kill.
"Just as well Mr Riddle's still alive," he purred, against the boy's ear. "You look rather like you need a psychiatrist to stitch up the cracks again."
Harry stepped back, turned to face him.
"Your part of the deal. Fulfill it. Now." The voice was cold, stiff. Eyes? Devastatingly vulnerable.
He smoothed out a finger to lift the other's chin, relishing the momentary collapse for his need for persona.
"So you don't want to pick out a butterfly?"
He laughed as he was shoved away, violently, eyes flashing and flaring with fury.
He grinned back, with no pretense of soft lips to hide sharp teeth bared in his glee.
He levitated Crouch easily, heading for the door, glancing back when he was outside of the wards.
"Tom will be in his home. I put him there about the same time Barty picked you up. Run along now."
He disapparated.
A/N: Um, so maybe I should change the ratings. Oh well. Hope you enjoyed the chapter :) Note, to all who follows my stories, each one follows a different type of dynamic, just to warn you...or maybe make you feel better that their might still be fluff somewhere in the future of my fanfiction writing haha.
Reviews, as always, are much appreciated for my time and...er, not money?
I think I'm hyper. Oh well!
PS: This story will probably be shorter than my other ones. We're a good bit into it already, so...'enjoy' while it lasts I hope?