Disclaimer- Harry Potter was never mine and he never will be. He belongs with Tommy anyway. ;)
Summary- Veils are lifted and delusions have dissipated. Truth is never the one hopes, but something that many prefer to be without. The heroes of this story are however strong enough to accept it.
Aren't they?
Chapter 11- I Waited For You, To Open Your Eyes.
Rowena's Ridge was a brilliant illustration of Wizarding pride: confident in its vilification of muggles and ministry alike. Why must they bow, they wondered, to a government that curtsied so readily with filth that would never understand magic? Why ever must they indulge the sensitive temperaments of those who never belonged in their world anyway? The consequence didn't matter to them; these esteemed wizards and witches of so pure lineages that they preferred the company of none but their own. They had thrived for centuries, annealing the very stones of the mute mountain with their magic.
There had been no premonition whatsoever, no harbinger that heralded the malice in the sunset. So the indolent inhabitants remained ignorant to the darkness hovering over the horizon until cries borne of a vindictive fire woke them.
Were they not powerful, these noble creatures of magic? Were they not proud of their skill, these descendants of blood untainted? Had they not defied the norm and defended themselves from the arrogant European Dark Lord from violating their sanctuary?
Why then did they cower so, at this moment, when their home was being ravished and their children were crying?
Perhaps because they recognized this person as one belonging to nightmares; dark fears that had never materialized truly even in dreams. What else could it be, this shadow of inhumanity that yielded Fiendfyre with unparalleled ease, this creature stood unflinching as dark magic licked at its skin lovingly? In the middle of bleeding innocence, the monstrous being rose as a sign of mockery.
His servants shrieked with glee at such devastation, and peace in the Ridge was shredded at the whim of those rushing shadows. Even as the pillars crackled with their curses, none could avert their attention for long from the one who stood at the core of this desolation.
They cried. They fought for their life. They shielded their children and the women. They begged and pleaded.
Yet somehow, their souls had already known.
For the powerful creatures under his command brought any and all hopes to be immolated at the altar of their Lord. They dragged broken remains of pride to sate his cavernous fury.
Cruelty understood no pleas and only sought the validation of the one crueller than them all.
But the Dark Wizard never looked away from the tear-streaked horizon, anticipation the lone emotion obvious in the crimson gaze.
Had he not promised thusly, to his lovely one, had he not vowed honestly that there could never be a relief for the one he treasured and cherished above most? Had he not proved himself capable of holding by any oaths he had sworn, magical or otherwise? Why must then, the little one be so confident in its assumption that he would not burn the faithless world to seek the frightened little doe?
Was Marvolo repentant of the ashes that lingered in place of the bountiful valley that had once thrived?
It was not a thought worth considering, for no matter how charming the lovely one might have been in his defence of all nobility and goodness, he held no such sentiments. The remainder only served to gleefully cater to the wrath of a Dark Lord.
And the Dark Lord was wrathful indeed, resplendent in his malevolence that scaled high to shriek to the heavens, of the fate that must befall the ones slighting this Lord of Magic. Violence rioted even in the hums of his silence and the world writhed and pleaded before him.
For once, however, these were not enough to speak to his attention or satisfy the hollow throbbing of his soul.
The village burned around him, his death eaters at once passionate and hesitant, yet the Dark Wizard spared none a glance to one other than his little treasure, dancing away in the periphery of his touch and dooming them all to such despair.
They called him Lord Voldemort. "Bow down before your Lord," They said, lying behind their masks of death. "You may be granted mercy."
And the proud heads of noble families trembled in righteous indignation, did not matter that their splendorous houses were clutched in the mercy of malignant beasts still. Did not matter that their hearts flinched away from the scarlet inhumanity.
"He is not my Lord." Cried one defiant wizard, grey eyes locked upon the monster; the soft cries of his wife, his reserved companion of decades, and the pale skin of his lone heir twisting in his mind and manipulating his control.
But the cruel monster cared naught for the emotion in his declaration, nor did he note the desperate curse leaving one trembling wand. For all the hopes stirring in the hearts of the fools, the blood-boiling curse never even touched him. A white hand had brushed it away so carelessly, so casual this display of unfathomable power, and the last of House Vale soon shrieked under the unforgivable.
Whispery thin was the promise floating to him, "Maybe your screams will reach him. So scream louder and maybe your saviour will end your agony."
Marius Vale had not even realized when he had fallen to the ground screaming and clawing. The wizard certainly did not comprehend the unintended declaration. At the truth hinted that he refused to accept: of being merely the pawns to the games of another, a sacrificial gamble to lure out the Queen and the Dark King seemingly vexed to have his manoeuvre for naught.
How could any expect leniency from this ruthless Master, recognizant only upon the award and naught upon the rest left to bleed upon the path?
-tob-ew-ith—outu—myl-ove-
The screams did not bring him gratification. The bleeding anguish in the faces of so many helpless and fearful did not speak to him of victory.
Because the lovely vision of a dark-haired creature remained a mirage.
Careless even in casting an Unforgivable, the Dark Lord did not merge himself in the cloying Dark Magic and chose instead the last memory of his sweet one: the exotic jewels in high bred features that had blinked up at him with unshed disbelief, the silent reproof of his gentle creature for the violent misappropriation of a permission. So sweetly the innocent creature had censured his rough behaviour, lips trembling but the face so expressive.
And an unknown burning clogged his breath so, as he wondered, wondered if he had perhaps turned the dear one away, perhaps frightened the casually impulsive soul of his and Hadrian could no longer bear the truth of a smothering companion entwined with him.
But had not the creature of infernal mysteries known already, of the monster behind the charisma? Perhaps the lovely mouth had persisted with defiance and determination but had not the sweet contradiction stayed still by his side?
Such had been the wonder that had incapacitated the most powerful wizard of the century, the wonder of this creature when no other thrall could ever hope to seduce him. The taciturn wizard had ensnared his cruel attention when no other could survive it. He had trapped himself within the yawning maws, even disinclined as Hadrian was with the interest of a powerful being any other would covet.
This wondrous creation, an unfathomable confusion, who shied from the persona that Marvolo had enchanted, but lingered by the fissures in his soul. And his little treasure would approach thus at each glimpse of his truth and would not deny it. Reprimand him perhaps, but never turn away with disgust.
Never deny him.
And the fury of a discontented Dark Lord rose higher still as he scrambled, bereft in his loss.
-tob-ew-ith—outu—myl-ove-
Grief and mourning tore the eve of a pitiless death, but the powerful wizard cared naught for what his cruelty bore. And the despondent wizards and witches, fleeing from the ravenous inferno or flailing in the contemptible mercy of the wretched ones called Death Eaters, cried out in despair.
For the monster seemed not to care for the victory that it was in bringing a long line of ancient blood onto their submission, cared naught for innocence sacrificed for his worship. They cried thus, wondering what would truly palliate this creature, what would grant them life for another moment.
"Have mercy!" They cried, clutching the lost children to their bosoms.
"Forgive us!" They pleaded, unsure of their sin yet repentant all the same.
The village burned and the monster looked rapt with the shadows of light being played, bringing forth images unknown, but did not turn to their pleas.
-tob-ew-ith—outu—myl-ove-
How had the creature of sweet magic corrupted him, how had he spoiled him, that the vision of endless anarchy was not quite enough anymore? The scarlet stains of his indulgence did not satisfy him anymore?
They did not fill the longing left behind in the wake of a precious person.
A person who would slip past his lunging grasp every other time despite the repercussions that must be borne.
This divine example of exasperation and twisting emotions, which vexed and snared the Dark Lord so callously, of breathtaking loveliness and sarcasm and wit...
Hadrian...Hadrian...Hadrian...
The splintered soul of a wizard shrieked and unbidden to himself his lips whispered, the forbidden knowledge thankfully lost to every other in the midst of chaos.
This was insanity, even as he acknowledged, a treachery upon his idealism for the sake of a pretty one... And yet that was not the least of the concerns, was it?
Perhaps delicate brows and honey-sweet lips had so prettily called for his attention that first time and every other instance henceforth, but they were not what reduced a Dark Lord to an unwanted intruder in another's life.
Marvolo had not been merely tempted by the dew-kissed gaze that met his inhuman scarlet every time. Wreaked havoc with the greed in his cavernous core perhaps, but the hunger could have been so easily cajoled by devouring the little lovely one sans remorse.
(The hollow ache in him might never have been filled, if he had indeed wrecked the exotic stranger for pleasant indulgence, never would have been healed. It would have sated him but for a moment and then the beauty would have been forgotten like so many. And He would have never known what he had held and lost already.)
It might have been the disastrous fate of the naive wizard, had the Dark Lord managed to truly understand the unexpected beauty he stumbled upon. Or any other time he had returned, anxious to detangle at least one other strand of this mystic creature.
But for every flash of knowledge, Marvolo was left to ponder upon thousands of other questions. Marvolo watched as the taints of melancholy so very often hooded the beguiled eyes, watched as Hadrian rose gloriously in instances of unbridled fury, as the wizard remained shadowed in contrasting shades but the lovely eyes spoke nothing but the truth.
He watched the sweet one and let himself falter from his singular greed of monstrous appetite.
He let his dark magic of malice wrap around the sweet heart and watched with bewilderment as he failed again and again.
The Heir of Slytherin had so fluidly peeked into the heart of many and murmured words that would surely arouse the rigid longing that had been kept therewithin. He had been the master of seduction and no matter his own broken soul, had ensnared so many others' for his amusement.
Should he not be satisfied with this verified claim of superiority? Should he not be, no matter that only one singular beauty had once denied him?
Perfectionist he might not have been, but it was not arrogance that was bruised by this creature that appeared in the fringe of his dreams with a whisper. Who turned away uncaringly from the attention of such a powerful being, impressed not in the slightest that had devoured many a soul, seduced not with the devastating charm that was adored for so long.
Not at all.
Yet for all his reticence from the innocent (relatively) persona that Marvolo was, the petite one would linger by the truth in the fragile mask the dark wizard had crudely written. For all his rebukes, his little treasure would look at him with such innocent disappointment. But never true disgust.
Understanding, but never disgust.
How could then, Marvolo ever hope to, ever want to, allow this creature his freedom or any opportunity to flee so far. How could he ever, the monster who had never thought to have the attention of such a pure divinity, be in any way generous to this soul?
Caught in an exorable fascination, Marvolo had cultivated the cherished one's attention with much sedulous effort: devotion to such extent, when the young Dark Lord had ever needed to only smile the sweetness of Adonis.
How could he ever, deny himself the sweetest of delight within this strange vicissitude he had found himself? Contrary to the sceptical murmurs of his mind, Marvolo had been entirely embroiled, absolutely enraptured, be it the exotic parlance Hadrian carried in his accent or imputed to the casual acceptance Hadrian persisted no matter the minor grumble.
The lust never was truly tamed by the gentle voice of its intended, but such kind acceptance it had never savoured and the monster coiled around the placidity, parched for even more.
And now, now as the sweet presence was torn away, by the foolishness of this being itself... The affronted being of nightmare could not evoke mercy. Not for the treacherous wizard, no matter how much his excuses might resound. Not the least for the place that dared to conceal his possession.
-tob-ew-ith—outu—myl-ove-
Marcus Rowle watched calmly as the fury of his master left behind crimson memories upon the once naive ground. Sometimes it was the splatter from a bleeding victim of dark curses; sometimes it was the roar of delighted monsters of fire that ravaged the hapless village. But the rage did not abate.
The Death Eaters were equally as helpless as the people who were screaming their agony to an uncaring Lord. It was hidden behind the gleaming malice and the blood-thirsty smiles, but they were uneasy nonetheless.
It was not a matter of debate that their master wished to conquer a place that was hidden from the eyes of the ministry. A rather brilliant strategy that none others had deducted; the ministry could hardly protect one away from its jurisdiction and a wave of noble families would fall thus due to their pride.
But this facile victory did not seem to be their Lord's attention. Besides which, the fire raged with the glee of its creator's need.
This was no mere victory, but something more.
Caught in the realization that the Dark Lord was not content, the unease spread farther among his comrades. Even when they watched as the dark gaze never left the horizon and they wondered at the true prey when the distraction languished in its miserable existence.
And loyal as they were, the faithful servants of Lord Voldemort, they pushed each wizard and witch onto forced submission, forced them onto their knee and spilled their blood just so their master might glean a moment of amusement.
They wrenched each beloved treasure from the hearts of these condemned, they demanded not blood but loyalty when the former their Master did not favour and waited with bated breaths as the Dark Lord pondered.
They would laud their Lord with everything and anything to show their devotion, let their souls bleed dark to worship their vengeful master.
If only the inferno in those eyes would be soothed.
-tob-ew-ith—outu—myl-ove-
His faithful ones were weary, he knew. Irrespective of the voracious want of the elusive creature, he was not unaware of the fluttering emotions around him.
He was aware, with nary a care.
With despairing loyalty, they forewent their own bleeding desires, instead of cleansing the ground with the blood of those they believed had offended their Lord thus. With devoted souls, they discarded their own hesitation and let it be tainted with magic old and vile. This fidelity to such extent, satisfying and conforming, should it not have been enough to grant this Dark Lord enough pleasure?
And yet he turned away from the expectant faces, from the powerful beings who had submitted to him, who had pledged soul and magic to him. Because the mocking whisper of his desired one would not let be.
The Dark Lord mused upon the caricature of a ruined world to savour to his delight and yet he could not help but linger upon the memories of this exotic creature: sweet flesh that trembled so upon all his touches thus and yet defied him still. Denied him still.
One Beltane morning an ethereal creature had smiled upon him so placid, so sweetly accepting. And now the surrender of the entire world seemed to fade into shades of grey before the memory.
And Marvolo shuddered from recalling the delicate of flesh he so often realized beyond the barrier of robes. Raged within as he withheld from temptation, even as his lovely, even as his sweet one trembled from all his touches thus, no matter that he must deny all his attention from a misplaced sense of loyalty.
A loyalty not centred upon him. The darkened lips would flutter with the flame that Marvolo ignited in him, yet the eyes would not turn to him. Nay, it would seek another far off. Seek another to soothe his heart.
The realization had jarred the Dark Lord more than he could have ever fathomed.
The intensity was even more condemning when the powerful wizards bowed before him declaring their willing allegiance when the defeated Lords of noble families kneeled before him accepting his Lordship and the Dark Lord found no pleasure in this victory.
-tob-ew-ith—outu—myl-ove-
Scorched fingers shakily offered the parchment: an innocuous torn piece but which would document forever the proof of their destroyed pride. One by one each who had ever laid a claim on the Rowena's Ridge yielded their right to stand upon the ground. They protested and nonchalant figures whispered dark curses so playfully. They protested still, their pride in their blood fraying and but mercy was non-existent. They yielded before their family was left to survive only on the pages of history.
Claws tore at the parchment, the one that pretentiously declared Lord Voldemort as the holder of Rowena's Ridge. No attention was however spared by the dark wizard. It was after all a superficial declaration, the magical vows would hold; the Wizarding ownership not bounded by any written syllables but essence.
The edges smouldered slightly, caught in the infernal rage of the Dark Lord.
It had been a long time his lovely one had been petulant. Oblivious or perhaps uncaring of his snarling need. Irreverent of the vows Lord Voldemort had sworn. He had been spurned again and again; the patience of the Lord Voldemort had exhausted itself when the measly bird had returned with its burden not accepted.
Long pale fingers twisted around the yew wand, the gesture so deceptively placid and yet the enraged magic spat vengeful manifestation, the picture of calm harshly broken.
It was not grief that was suffocating Marvolo. It was not the loss that swore a burden upon his veins. It was not longing that stifled his breaths.
For a Dark Wizard who never cared for emotions, wrath was all that he could understand when his twisted and split; his magic rose cloyingly searching for the offense to its master, any excuse to flagellate, to bathe his feet in worshipful blood.
It had breathed cursed fire, unforgiving, to devour all within its malicious maw, and yet the cavernous hunger was hardly sated.
The creature so very righteous in its defense of a measly house, so very indignant at the fissure within the magical world remained elusive even as a gifted village burned in his ire; and yet the screams of Rowena's Ridge remained unanswered as it burned for him.
And Lord Voldemort would have mocked the hypocrisy, had it not been his devoted desire to coax out the shy little creature from its sanctuary.
Besides, he had promised, had he not, to burn the world around him should Hadrian deny him his claim?
It mattered not anymore, for his intended remained veiled from his sight still.
It mattered not...
Lord Voldemort turned his inquisitive gaze to the survivors, fearful still and smiled at the flinches.
There were some who struggled and sneered, weakly perhaps but defiant nonetheless.
But the scarlet gaze had no more patience and they shifted from the fiery horizon with much reluctance.
The mirage of his creature wouldn't lift.
It mattered not... for now he possessed the Rowena's Ridge itself. His creature could no more hide. Rowena's Ridge might not be vast, but it was magical. Every wizard and witch that held a claim to the land had been shielded by their wards.
Hadrian had taken advantage of the fact that as long as all the residents have not submitted their claims, he shall not be discovered. Did he truly think that the Lord Voldemort would be so benevolent as to spare the foolish mortals that dared shelter his desired one from his gaze?
The first act of a terrible Wizarding war would remain largely unseen, unannounced. Perhaps it wasn't the heralding statement the faithful death eaters had anticipated. Truly it wasn't; blazed as it as with a flame of vengeance and obsession, spurred as it was with rejection.
Rowena's Ridge had mourned and screamed, unaware of the one person responsible as saviour as well as the speaker of death.
But the arrogance of the Dark Lord remained a satire, for the one who must be one to douse the fiendish fire, hardly appeared.
It mattered not, the Dark Lord mused as the ancient house was forced from its denial of the claim and the last sanctuary of his elusive creature was conquered. With victory finally lightening his rage, the gate to a lovely cottage was blasted aside. Fragile plants were trampled underneath determined steps and the anticipation to claim, destroy, possess had flared to malicious heights.
Near the front door, his greed steadied and an alohomora granted him entrance rather than a reducto. Wishing to keep his arrival somewhat startling, the Dark Lord stepped past the threshold. (But his lovely one must already have known his ward having fallen, must already know his home being breached.)
He wondered whether the prey would be unknowing of the trap having enclosed upon its pretty throat, or whether it would be cowering in the corner already.
Lord Voldemort must remember the bitter taste of disappointment, mocking the greatest wizard of all time.
For when the wizard found the oblivious one, the lovely creature, his enchanting companion of months, his vexing delight lied still and caught unaware upon a claimed divan, so sweetly dreaming as the vile wraith shuffled closer in lust and wrath.
He dreamed still when the Dark Lord watched with inhuman need etched upon the pale features; stayed unresponsive when an eager hand brushed over the smooth skin with delight. Hadrian remained in the sweet bliss of darkness, even when his body was lifted uncaring by a longing wizard, unheeding of the indecent way the hands stayed low or the alarming manner in which the sleeping one rolled its head. He lay in a graceless arc upon the arms of a suddenly concerned Marvolo. He stayed sweet and unaware, even as he was tapped lightly and then incessantly, a desperate call for attention, while a supporting hand bruised his nape with unconscious alarm.
But he stayed sweet and unaware of the chaos thus rending a Dark Lord's emotion ad nauseam.
-tob-ew-ith—outu—myl-ove-
Lord Voldemort watched with insanity dominating his void soul, aggravated even more at the painting so placid, violently in contrast to the mutiny within his mind. He looked at the enthralling shade of green so enraptured, insensible as the creature was to its own precarious position.
For here lied the one entity that roused the singular fear he had thought put to rest forever. And the Lord Voldemort was petrified, furious in this anxiety foreign and yet so familiar.
There was loathing.
There was fear.
There was desperation.
But the lovely creature sat up with brows furrowed while the Dark Lord remained frigid in a threadbare control, lest he is driven to put this creature of infinite confusion into absolute decimation.
Lest he is drowned at the whim of this strange suffocation that threatened his breath so. His fingers itched with intention of such cruelty. His magic writhed between obeying the need of its master that fluctuated so fiercely.
"Marvolo..." The whisper was soft and distracting in its plaintiveness. Lovely even its quiet confusion. Inciting in its divine vision and Marvolo was dearly tempted to sink into a worshipful kneel in front of the pale beauty. The remnants of sleep clung prettily to the beloved: uncertain sweeps of the dark lashes so sweetly, so sweetly damning.
The Dark Lord withheld a snarl at this seemingly innocent creature; this exotic creature that must trail its ignorant whispers across the darkest secrets of all. There would not be mere glimpses of a knowing glance either, would not tease so with whispers of knowledge forbidden; no, the beautiful one would blaze across secrets in hidden depths, must reach to the weakly shivering core of the most powerful man and toy so carelessly.
Lord Voldemort had refused the fall into time and Death, he had refused to bow before which all had and he would suffer for eternity rather than lose himself in void. He would not be defeated by mere man, he would not be vanquished by Death either and under the poisonous guards of treasures beat his most coveted of darkness.
All for that he might never know the ever encompassing fear ever; fear that he might soar higher than any and all, but must fall to the irredeemable grasp of Death, fear that one day Lord Voldemort would be turned away upon the wan pages of the past.
A fear he had not cared to explore more than declaring it as a weakness. Lord Voldemort was not weak.
Irrefutable logic but for the entrance of one man who danced muddled pools into his once organized life. Who carved fresh wounds onto the already bleeding chasms of a broken soul and accomplished in his disdainful ignorance the most fatal of offenses.
Could the monster be blamed for loathing this person who had appeared before him thus: a beautiful salvation, a wilful devastation?
He had guarded his soul away, had he not? From the cruelty of death, he had shielded himself with the courage of Darkest of Magic. And yet, it quivered with the vulnerability he had believed to have crushed for eternity.
For it was Hadrian who had seemed so unnervingly to be offering itself to the voracious claim of death and yet, how was it that Marvolo had felt the putrid breath of Death upon his soul?
So the spitting serpent lazily paced the floor, all the while keeping nebulous control upon its venom, "So weak. If I had known the true nature of one such as you, I wouldn't have wasted my time with you."
(Lord Voldemort had no weakness. And the Dark Wizard wished to destroy this thing that threatened to be one.)
Hadrian hummed a dazed acknowledgement of his presence merely, casting instead an assessing glance around the room-letting the thin fingers twine through the long hair in his distraction and succeeding oh so well in stealing a soft breath from Marvolo.
Green eyes flittered uncertain and bewildered. Yet when they returned to the inhuman creature anticipating its devastation, the luminous gaze didn't cower. Clear and honest they said, "There are many things you despise about me. Despite all your...complaints, you still stayed." The words were a hoarse whisper, and Marvolo mused about the water by the bedside but didn't volunteer to soothe the ache.
Because the Dark Lord cared nary a thing for this creature's comfort. This docile creature in the centre of his bed; a vision that should have incited, provoked him so, however, utterly discarded as his fury spiralled. The lovely creature was unforgivably dishevelled, dark tresses that were so resolutely regimented flowed even and swaying upon soft sheets, a gloomy barrier against all that might trespass. He shone paler than ever, blood having fled the callous man in its malnourishment. In the desertion the bright gaze spoke brighter still, swirling with life no matter that it had come so very close to a dull glaze of death.
The remainder was enough to spite the Dark Lord and he despised this person undeniably. Was it not enough that Hadrian had become more significant than he expected, wanted even? Was it not enough that he had accepted already the entwined destiny they must share? Was it not enough that he had known Hadrian would never be what any others might be, would be forever defiant and lovely, would be the one exception he could not tame? Was it not enough?
But the foolish thing was ever so complacent in the grasp of a monster, utterly decadent in his domain.
A sweet temptation that would bring about his end.
And the once powerful Dark Lord responded as well to this threat, with the need to obliterate before he himself might be devoured.
"No." Voldemort smiled, madness saturating his poisonous words, "Do you think I would have stayed still if I had known that beneath your show of strength hid a pathetic thing? Do you think I would have willingly touched you if I had known? To have magic and yet you are no worse, no stronger than a filthy muggle. How is it," The Dark Lord tilted his head with mock contemplation, "How is it that you managed to deceive a powerful wizard?"
Hadrian blinked at him. Marvolo marvelled at this creature that remained uncaring as anarchy screeched behind the unflinching facade of a composed Lord.
But then the truth potion that had been forced upon an unconscious Hadrian also contained a sprig of bloodroot, a primary ingredient in calming draughts.
Awareness dawned upon the fair being and Voldemort waited with vengeful anticipation.
"Ah. I became careless." Hadrian exclaimed quietly gazing fascinated at his thin wrists. "I really should have kept track of how many times I was using pepper up and girding."
Surely the monster could be commended for keeping its peace for so long. Surely it could be forgiven for the surrender made to the feral fury within. The feigned civility was discarded and the taunting creature should not be offended when claws grabbed its bare arms none too gentle.
Hadrian grasped and the Dark Lord hissed, "You dare call this mere carelessness? You poisoned yourself. A mature person might be expected to recognise the needs of their body and the sustenance. You had exhausted your strength and then the subsequent excess of pepper up potion forced your body to keep burning even when it had no fuel. In time, it would feed upon your life itself if your mind had not shut itself from the strain. In other words, you didn't care whether you lived or died. Stubborn fool, as if anyone might have found your corpse if I had not looked for you! Seeing how you don't care, however, perhaps I should have made your grave anyway, hmm?"
He was so close. The stunned gaze at the dark fury, the frail flesh under his command. The fury didn't dissipate. Perhaps once he would have allowed himself to be swept away instead; perhaps when the petite wizard hadn't vexed him so.
The pretty creature couldn't manipulate his emotions now, as he was wont to do with a mere glance of inquisitive verdant, but Marvolo was at least no longer brutally needful of seeing the pretty one whimper for daring to play with his emotions so.
"I am sorry for making you worry."
There was a pause to allow for a stuttering heart.
Lord Voldemort pushed away Hadrian with a disgusted sound, looked away from the befuddled beauty, eyes full of wonder (he loathed so, loathed that his pulse beat in answer to the guile), and spat in answer, "I kept my promise. Granted I was not aware of who exactly I was pledging to." He spared a revolted glance to the bed, "In a world where power shall rule, I am not going to be bound by people who would be happy to fall and stay fallen. Who would succumb to weakness rather than try to survive." With vehemence, he leaned forward to watch the kaleidoscope of emotions upon the creature, "Who had magic but wouldn't care to save themselves from vulnerabilities. I failed somehow because one had slipped past my notice anyway."
Hadrian tarried with the warm comforter and irrelevant to the rage within Marvolo couldn't help but see what the creature had noted before, of the stark nothingness he had chosen to surround himself with. Materialistic possessions had failed to be a thought when he had chosen to lead a war. And thus his room resembled a stone prison with the exception of the very beautiful bed. But even that had been the last moment transfiguration for the sake of his Hadrian.
Hadrian who looked at him with such empathy, as if he could peer into the battered soul of his.
A step was taken back, anxious as he was suddenly from the tranquil gaze. His fury had hardly stirred a lock in the wilderness of dark hair and yet the simple placidity of this person managed to scramble him so. Perhaps, Lord Voldemort thought, the truth wouldn't be as desirable as he had supposed.
Time wouldn't favour him today, wouldn't turn back to seize his hand from pouring the potion down an unconscious throat.
"I didn't do it intentionally. You must know that, don't you." The man's head tilted at him as he continued the dazed reach of a strung marionette. The sweet voice dropped and the Dark Lord was petrified in place as a soft hand soothingly laid upon his face, "I am sorry. I am sorry that she wasn't strong enough. But that doesn't mean I was doing the same."
His magic wouldn't stir, Voldemort didn't even think of his magic anyway before encircling the pretty throat a fatal grip. He didn't care for the astounded gasp or the bewildered potion-drunk being. Desperately, thin hands struggled for freedom.
But the pretty eyes never surrendered. They looked undaunted at the scarlet madness and didn't waver. Marvolo felt the fluttering of pulse against his hold, felt the unfamiliar ache in his heart at the pain in the beautiful verdant.
So he hurt his Hadrian the only way he was capable of now. "At least no one else paid for her mistake."
The struggle against his grasp had dimmed and the other wizard had been roused faintly from the potion stupor from the blood rush in his veins. But at his words, the spell flailed and lush gaze found itself confused upon the triumph deep within the monster.
"Marvolo, what?"
The Dark Lord spoke gleefully. "Surely you should have expected it already. I warned you, did I not, to be wary of provoking me? I told you, did I not, that I would burn the world around you to find you? I kept my promise. That is all."
A thin hand was wrapped across his staining knuckles and for the first time, plea bled into the stubborn green." Please tell me you didn't."
"You should not have defied me."
There was desperation in the sweet voice, in the wide eyes and Voldemort devoured the rightful vindication with satisfaction soothing his frazzled mind, "What did you do?
"I kept my word. That I would burn the world around you to smoke you out from wherever you might have fled to." Malicious glee lit upon at the devastation he was causing this treacherous creature. The darling face crumpled the more he spoke, and he didn't stop. He didn't stop and yet, this ache in his soul didn't subdue even as he wrecked the very cause. "You should have heard their screams, pleading to be saved, begging for mercy. They didn't know however, it was nary their fault. They didn't know that their blood must pay the debt of another."
Hadrian freed himself from his grasp with a determination that his strength could never have carried in its fragility and the Dark Lord watched his ascension to brilliance with an admiration shielded beneath his contempt.
He was shaking his head as if to shrug off the words, but in the end he crumpled, "You! You loathsome... I can't believe... If you must, have the decency to admit the truth! I did not defy you, not intentionally. No, I was only an excuse. A convenient excuse for you to let your true nature show and indulge to the best."
And the Dark Lord turned to the other even more wrathful, unheeding of the warning his soul screeched at him.
"I would have if that had been the truth. No, the sole reason had been you. To draw you out through the screams for their savior and the smoke of despair. It was unfortunate that no one truly knew of you, perhaps their agony would have ended soon. The only reason was to find you. That is the truth."
Brilliant wet sparkles turned the lovely eyes into effervescent splendour. He didn't stop tearing all that he had cultivated so carefully into unrecognizable shreds.
"You horrible...horrible monster..."
He held no regret.
Furious Magic, as it had not been when he was holding its wizard in an unforgivable grasp, caught him unaware and threw him clear across the open door. Barely a grunt was spared because his dark magic shielded him from the worst of the fall.
The creature was divine in its righteous anger, as it stumbled towards him with hands clenched and magic trembling.
How he longed, as he watched the perfect beauty shatter so in agony, how he longed to ruin it entirely.
"I did not do it for the sake of defying you. But it was only an excuse wasn't it? You would have done the same anyway because the darkness within you cannot do anything else but destroy."
Marvolo felt his mask splinter as with a sweep of the yew wand dust was removed from his robes. And then the cruel eyes looked at his antithesis.
Each syllable that fell from that mouth could wound as sweetly as any Dark Curse. And the Dark Lord proudly wielded it.
"You expected it. You knew of it. Of who I am. But you didn't care anyway. Were you truly concerned, you wouldn't have made finding you so difficult. You might hate me all you wish; I never gave you false illusion of who I truly am." Marvolo walked forward, fury in his veins swirling still. "So tell me, sweet one, who is the true monster?"
The Dark Lord was prepared for many things, anticipating the hunger that must be sated by forcing this wilful creature to submission by magic or might. He was not prepared however for the emptiness that cleared the expressive features, the void that wrapped his passionate creature. For the few feet that separated the two seemed no longer so because somehow Hadrian was lost to him.
And the detached being in front him acquiesced to him, "What a thought to wonder about! You will excuse me for taking my leave, wouldn't you?"
With sharp turn of a heel, Hadrian left, leaving behind tattered remains of a ward carefully designed by the most powerful dark wizard of the century.
-tob-ew-ith—outu—myl-ove-
He had not realised quite that he was barefoot; horror had overridden his reason and he had fled through a forced calm. He had fled far and uncaring to a place unplanned, even as grief greedily started to devour his steps. When the trembling wizard fell for the uncountable number of time onto the treacherous terrain he could not gather enough will to get up once more and stumble on.
And the lone wizard stayed kneeling, writhing in shock and sorrow. The dishevelled wizard wrapped thin arms around his shivering figure, heavier sleeves than he was used to sliding past his fingers.
The scent of another entwined with his own, slowly but surely overwhelming his very essence.
The wizard gasped desperately in a miasma of horror, captive in a storm of emotions that surrendered themselves to extinguishing his flittering strength.
And wasn't how this should be expected anyway?
Had he not known in the dark mouth of the sweetly cajoling serpent, the malice of its venom even as he had let it slither up his palm, let it rest leisurely its languorous coil? Had he not known of the tempestuous devastation as it truly existed beyond the charming facade?
Was he not, staying faithful to such argument, complicit as well? It did not matter that his hands remained cold and pale in the reflection of the moonlit night. Harry felt the slyness of blood in his palm.
Naked fingers carved agony upon the frigid soil.
He had let himself stay captivated as the noxious being grew in stealth and expounded its territory. Harry had not even noticed when the undulating evil had become colossal enough to engulf him.
That soon he would have had nothing of himself left.
In this exotic world that he had stumbled upon, equally familiar and strange, where he was afraid of leaving behind even the ghost of his footfalls, least the sands of time be forever altered on their path. Yet he had been waylaid by a charming man nonetheless. Every uncertain step encouraged subtly by this dark wizard. Every transgression flouted carefully out of his notice.
And the unorthodox traveller had foolishly reassured himself that it was reversible yet. That he would be gone with the next whisper and Marvolo would no longer need a mask to separate himself from Voldemort.
That there was still space for forgiveness, not for the Dark Lord. For himself. For indulging himself thus. For deceiving himself thus.
But it never had been a mask truly, had it? Despite his confidence, his time spent inside a gleaming pensieve and his observations from afar, he had never been prepared enough for the Dark Lord himself as he had so very arrogantly believed.
The price of his callous behaviour had been in the form of ravaged peace, a historical community crumbled at the whimsical swish of a yew wand. The witches and wizards must have lamented their unbidden guilt as their home was destroyed, unaware of the true emissary who had invited sentient evil upon them.
The once saviour of the Wizarding world had traipsed horrified upon the ruin, upon the ashes that dusted the greenery of Rowena's Ridge. He could no more bear the sight and without caring to see what must remain of the cottage he had called its own, he had fled the place.
He had forgotten in his arrogance that Tom Riddle had been an heir of Peverell as well.
It didn't matter that in the future he had known, Rowena's ridge had been affected in the war anyway, the placid mountains had known the fury of the Dark Lord anyway and the last heir of Peverell had mourned the loss of his ancestral, however superfluous home in that future. Harry wouldn't foist his responsibility onto the passage of time. He couldn't.
A choked exhale was forced out as if the scrambling wizard had begged for forgiveness but wouldn't let himself.
Guilt seeped onto his veins, unforgiving and demanding his very soul as retribution.
Harry shivered again, pinpricks of cold jolting his body. It was far colder this night, colder even than nights with the moon abandoned. Harry refused to think of the warmth and rubbed arms into forced comfort.
Refused to think of this place he had apparated in his better memories, of the once beauty of water creatures that had greeted him.
Refused to care for the warmth in his soul and grieved still.
He curled into himself upon the cold ground, inhaling the musk that still carried the touch of a Dark Wizard.
Had he not known the terrible fate of Marvolo? In the preternatural long fingers that must have drawn indulgent, scarlet caricatures upon the lives it must have brushed by? In the cruel curve of mouth with a taste for mottled violence?
Or had he perhaps fled to his sanctuary at the end of the day, soothed his fluttering heart in the absence of the seductive magic?
It had been a sanctuary indeed, the faintest trail of hope to assure him from the cavernous reaches from a monster. The one place warded well by faithful blood that even as the hypnotizing gaze of the dark wizard tempted so, there still held a place where he might hold his scattered thoughts about at the end of the day.
Where there must be evidence of his research, evidence to remind him of his true self and the thoughts might have no defence; at the very least the very air shouldn't carry his memories.
And Harry had believed blood because faith had not been able to deter the nightmare that had come prowling upon Godric's Hollow so many Samhain past(future?), a memory that felt as convoluted as it was displaced out of time. But now as Harry stood trembling with no place to call his own, he realised that perhaps the Dark Lord had been humouring him all this time after all.
He was filled with acute horror and betrayal; unwanted feelings calling his debilitating heart a home no matter that he had so very often proclaimed himself uncaring to Marvolo.
Wretched he was Harry turned to earth in despair; most despicable, he clutched at the harshly wrapped hair so cruel.
The monster he was, he realized the Dark Wizard's words as naught but the truth, for even now... even now when the truth of the Dark Lord lay so starkly in front of him... even now... he thought of the dread within the callous air Marvolo had breathed. With a hand clutched desperate to his chest, Harry exhaled the lies he had cocooned himself in.
For the truth had been that as horrified with Voldemort's action, his heart still reached out to soothe the Dark Lord in his chaotic emotions.
In the desperate ignorance, he had seen in the dark gleams. For no matter how much he might turn away, no matter what the cruel mouth must speak of, the inhuman eyes had spoken of tortured fear.
For he must have fallen rather far that even now his battered heart whispered words of longing and care for the dark wizard.
He had fallen.
He had fallen after all.
He could not suppress, could not care enough to, the wrenching cry of his soul. Bruised fingers swiped desperately at the earth to counter the pain that must be, to have fallen for a Dark Lord who loathed the mere promise of emotions.
The ache grew sharper and Harry wanted to tear apart the capricious thing, but could only stare mindlessly onto the ground upon which he lay shattered. He had fallen for a wizard who amused himself with lives of others, the unwavering belief of his followers and the sentiments of those who dared thought themselves his equal.
He has fallen for Marvolo, who had attended him so diligently from the very first time they had met. The wizard had promised him on the grounds of Black Lake when his hope had been cruelly torn by the centaurs, that Harry would never find himself bereft of company, or suffocated with loneliness. The man had stood by the promise that had not been wanted, through accusations and disinterests.
Bare fingers curled at the humourless ground, and the strongest wizard writhed helplessly, the agony cruelly tearing away all the blinders he had forced on himself, all the denials he had chosen as his sanctuary and instead engulfed with the burning longing.
How could he...
His self-inflicted torture would have continued for quite some time, had he not been aware of a flash of white in a peripheral view. His pulse rose treacherously at the wish that Marvolo had come for him, as he always had.
But the dark wizard would never taint himself with white.
It was a soft light fluttering above the ground, the brilliance of a Patronus but far too miniature to deem it even the attempt of an untried.
Brushing away the slight wetness from his cheeks, Harry reached out with hollow curiosity and cautiousness abandoned with alacrity.
It was warm. Not the soft warmth of fire, nor was it the reassuring heat of the Patronus. His fingers dipped into the little-disfigured ball of light with the slightest pulse as if verifying its existence.
As soon as it had tasted him, it flickered off to appear off the beaten path.
Harry had followed much worse, with fewer instructions. His tendency to be foolishly callous as once upon the youth had abated. But it had not disappeared.
Besides, he was hardly undefended when his faithful holly wand was with him.
His heart cared naught for reasons. Such a fickle little being. Or perhaps, with his most recent realization, he had come to understand caution didn't matter anymore anyway.
He hurried, determinedly not looking at the tranquil lake, carefully stepping away from the path as he followed the Willow's Lantern.
He wondered about the ones who carried a message for him, wondered uncaring of whether they meant foul intentions.
Flinching through the hardness that dug through his soles and feet, Harry walked on for long he didn't care to count and didn't notice them until a voice aroused his distracted self.
"Harry Potter. We have been waiting for you."
-tob-ew-ith—outu—myl-ove-
Marvolo waited, waited for his wayward treasure to return. He waited irreverent of the cold that had descended with the darkness. The house remained unlit, a dark mass impotent behind the Dark Wizard. Patience had been a virtue he had ever idolized. Yet when he must entrap the most agnostic wizard, he had learnt to savour the absolutely delicious reward for every agonizing wait he must endure. He waited, his thoughts straying no further than must be allowed.
After all, there was nowhere else that his creature could run to, could seek solace from. Marvolo had exhausted every memory that the lovely one could cling for sanctuary. He had tainted, had seeped into its very pulse.
His triumph would be so very sweet to savour. The end was so very near; perhaps it was prompted unconventionally, unexpectedly, but Lord Voldemort rapidly found his voracity scent the air for the lovely fragrance of his prey. There could be no more escape, no more excuses and each secret that the spring bright gaze refused to say would be spilled with the betrayed tears.
I am sorry she wasn't strong enough.
-tob-ew-ith—outu—myl-ove-
Once upon a time a lovely, little doe had found itself straying from its herd, was lost and bewildered in a land unfamiliar. Disoriented, it did seek its fellow brethren and yet, stumbling steps brought it no closer to them. Despondent, it obscured itself within a haven fortune granted and let its days be filled with dreams of home.
Once upon a time, a monster came upon an exotic beauty, forlorn beyond the dark tresses it had hidden and the gluttonous being felt its greed command a deceptively gentle smile. The core was as rotten as the scarlet madness declared and with forgotten skills reclaimed the nightmarish being cajoled the skittish doe.
With fresh hues of sweet spring, the slender creature noted the approach heart fluttering and yet, never downed its bold gaze. And the being draped so lovingly in darkness, the one that had meant to guide the little creature into a trap so welcoming, had meant to sample the sweet delicacy so exotic before devouring to sate its selfish appetite, found itself enthralled with a charm flushed with naivety.
Surprised at this unexpected delight, it pursued the serene creature with singular interest. Docile it might have been, the doe cared naught for the promise of power flouted thus. Dispassionate it might have been it easily resisted the darkness that caressed its skin so possessive in its intent.
The monster might have been delighted thus at the treasure it found, might have been, had it not been the casual power he found slumbering in the placidity. In the most unexpected manner the doe gently chipped the pieces away and he knew not the pretence had fallen. He knew not when the monster had merged with the human.
Every triumph he must declare as a monster as he had once intended, but did not quite track the stumbling steps into this unbidden territory.
Yet, gloat he did still, in the superiority of his strength, in the submissive visage of the sweet one that would one day fall to him.
In his power, he rested assured, in the darkness that never failed him before. Despite the lingering discomfort at the strength with which the divine creature perforated his belief and his mind, he persisted still.
And benevolently did he grant the growing attachment, the convoluting bond between two magical beings. He discarded the obsessive devotion, the overwhelming affinity with which one creature of no slyness could claim his attention so.
For no matter the threat of these... emotions... so unfamiliar, the little beauty would forever be in his grasp. He might allow himself faint adjustments because the other shall succumb one day; his beloved treasure would claim its true place at his feet.
No matter the blaze in the shade of Death itself. The creature would bow.
Then the innocent one, his sweetest desire had spoken with a voice glazed with divine nectar, murmured so with gentle hands cradling his face.
And the Dark Lord had perhaps truly understood. Understood that the poison had been in the very air this deceptive creature breathed, in every pulse that sighed. Raw display of power wasn't needed, nor did the creature need to be magically seductive being to threaten his existence.
If that would have been so, Lord Voldemort would have long wrecked such audacity, would have taken vicious amusement.
The creature had never needed vicious power to defend it, for his words were as capable of dismantling one's sanity as he himself would boast of.
Every tale gone untold, gone neglected for the Dark Lord had deemed unnecessary now spoke of not reticence of a wayward traveller, but of taunts a fatal secret bore. And Lord Voldemort wouldn't forgive. ..Wouldn't forget the whispered words. Couldn't ignore... couldn't help but remember the reluctant trails spilled from an oblivious mouth.
Couldn't ignore the realization of that first glance at the edge of the black lake, not of horror at the presence of a stranger, but recognition.
How arrogant he had been in his superiority, how self-assured! How stupendously foolish at the knowing glances, at the resigned acceptance...
There had been no charade for the benefit of the innocence he had perceived. They had seen Tom Riddle at honestly they had known Marvolo.
Unforgivable... for had not the Dark Lord scrubbed the history from ever remembering Tom Riddle, had he not removed the stench of this muggle father, the shame of his mother, the despair of his family? Had he not cleansed his hands with the blood of his own?
But for this anomaly, who must dare mock him as if his soul was transparent to this being. Such a wayward thought, yet it terrified him more than conceivable. And such threats could easily be identified. Could it not? Hadrian shall write them so faithfully for him, drawn in his own blood.
The monster longed to extend a claw and draw the lovely menace to his side so that it might kneel in supplication.
But he waited, patient as it had never been advocated as his preference. He waited, for the world had been laid bare and no shelter the creature could claim as a refuge. So he granted mercifully for it to lament and cry.
And waited for his prey to realize its cage.
He arrived with a quiet storm, step a stumble out of apparation.
The Dark Lord was prepared for many a thing.
Had anticipated with vindictive intent.
Laced with fury and malice.
And yet, he looked at the being still and blank and at the next exhale, he couldn't bring back the malignity.
The little treasure had returned, as he had known; had nowhere left to run, he had known.
And yet, the triumph that he must relieve had been replaced by a strange restlessness. He had conquered the ever reticent creature, had he not? Why then, there seemed to be an abyss torn between them?
Why did it feel as if Hadrian became more chimerical, more fantastic by the minute?
"Marvolo?"
The Dark Lord searched with urgency for the duplicity in the exotic face. In a moment he abandoned it, merely to pursue the loveliness alone.
The ache in his core startled him and he wished to take a step forward, to touch, to admire, to rage and spite. The previous satisfaction felt sour upon his tongue. The vindication instead seemed to have turned traitor. He didn't understand, not the blooming bruise deep inside his core.
They were numb, his fingers.
"Hadrian." The barest attempt to swallow the snarling ache in his throat.
Hadrian smiled and the Dark Lord flinched. This was not what he wanted. He wanted the defiance to bloom, for it to be crushed at his whim. He wished for tears to purify the lovely one's sins.
He didn't care for this mockery of expression that must never lie upon this person, this person of the untainted soul.
He cared naught for this strange acceptance in so desirable a face. It cared naught that Hadrian accepted his brutal action.
Let there be condemnations! Let there be blood.
They remained frozen at their spots, their breaths could condense together and yet so far.
And the lovely green he cherished so, remained empty of life.
"I did not thank you for taking care of me earlier. I am grateful for your help, Marvolo."
So very distant. So very callous and Marvolo called out bewildered at the loss echoing in his soul as Hadrian was turning away already. A strange farewell that throttled remnant of his thoughts.
"Shall I see you on Mabon, then?" It was anxious indeed, his call. The Dark Lord clenched his fist in unknown worry and the words remained ever so polite.
Hadrian turned back minutely and Marvolo found wetness clinging to the dark lashes. Found a remnant of desperation in his soul and sought so curiously for it to be reflected in the others' gaze and yet the pale canvas spoke nothing of but loveliness.
"I suppose it does not matter any way. I will see you one more time." He despised the prophetic words, but Hadrian gave him another smile carrying naught of emotions, "Good bye."
Marvolo had scarcely had to take a breath before darkness was his only companion.
A/N:- ... It is late I know. I would tell you about how this was my final year ( finished with that!) and about sadist life etc..etc.. however I am still sorry. The story was due to be just edited for last some months and I just couldn't find the time! Gahh..! But I promised I would never leave you guys, didn't I?
I wanted to say something real quick. I know my update rate is slow and the pace of the story is even slower. This is not a thriller where adventure need be in every page. I just..loved Tom and Harry. Loved their story and their romance. (Okay, I know nothing like that actually happened, but the possibilities). It just.. feels really discouraging when people sign off my story like that. One would think after the support of so many lovely readers, I am a bit more confident now..*sigh*
My story is my horcrux, okay! And thank you every one who has so sweetly supported my darling little things. You guys are more amazing than I can describe.
Ohkies than for little trivia time:
So Tommy got really mad when Harry ignored his letters, because first Harry was actually upset and then because like an idiot he overdosed on potions. Tommy threw a tantrum and then found a sleeping beauty. Had a plan to find the truth but hey! That backfired on him! Both are a little mad at the other now but Harry got unexpected new and then whole dynamics shifted again.
The cottage was under blood ward. Voldemort didn't know that. When he thought he owned the place Hadrian owned, simply by owning the land he was actually wrong.
Girding is a potion I lifted from HP fandom. It is meant to increase endurance but advisable in small quantities.
The truth potion that Voldemort had given Harry had a bit of calming effect and that made Harry really loose-tongued for a while.
Willow's Lantern is actually sort of will'o the wisps. Sort of anyway. They are a kind of call. Whether you answer it or not, your choice. They are pure of heart and they have been used very often by creatures to summon someone. The creatures however may or may not have kind intentions.
That's it I think.
I am sorry it is repetitive and slow-paced and probably boring. Hope you like it anyway guys. Do leave a review if you wanna? That will be awesome.