Disclaimer: There is a strong case for opposing intellectual property. Among other things, it often retards innovation and exploits Third World peoples. Most of the usual arguments for intellectual property do not hold up under scrutiny. In particular, the metaphor of the marketplace of ideas provides no justification for ownership of ideas. The alternative to intellectual property is that intellectual products not be owned, as in the case of everyday language. Strategies against intellectual property include civil disobedience, promotion of non-owned information, and fostering of a more cooperative society.
A/N: Sorry for the cliffhanger. I would not have used one had I not decided on writing the next chapter as I can; toobad real life got in the way. I am not that horrible a person. Also, if you listen to "Rome - We who fell in love with the sea" while reading this chapter, you'll get an emotional bonus.
To Ninianna: Indeed, that line was the one I enjoyed coming up with the most. The subtle meta-lampshade-hanging quality of it, yum yum. Thanks for the rest of lovely comments anyhow, I am doing my very best in creating a Potter and a Riddle that are as close to canon and they are to my personal idea of them.
To NougatEvolution: Thanks for reading the femmeslash one, too. Anyway, your TMI was welcome, because I am always slightly afraid of shocking the American portion of my readers, since my morals are more on the libertarian, European side. As for the paternal relationship, Potter might have given into Tom's aggression at this point, but that does not mean that things will follow strictly that path from now on.
To Tonia: Actually, καθορώ is indeed the classical Ancient Greek word from κατά + ορώ, so your Greek must be rather good. The word I am talking about though is a late Ancient Greek word. You won't find it in Plato or Aristotle. If you need an example, just google "καταβλέπω Plutarchus Moralia" and google books will find the corresponding page for you.
Chapter 36
Potter's PoV
"That's fine with me," he says, a statement simple, sealing clearly his intentions towards me. For a second he seems a little insecure about proceeding, but he reaches out and grabs me again anyway.
Again, and in a manner most assertive, if not downright coercive.
This time though, I am prepared for it. And although I do let his lips meet mine, out of weakness perhaps or out of selfishness, I quickly push the young wizard away. Neither with as much violence as I had previously drawn him in, nor with as much brutality as I'd just responded to his previous kiss, though. I push him away gently, softly. Like one would scold a small, fragile animal.
"Enough, Tom," I whisper a little hoarsely, and I know that my words are directed to myself as well. It's not easy for me to turn him down, really, because he is just criminally attractive, and so my voice comes out rather powerless; a little broken perhaps, and very thick. But it is commanding nonetheless, and it pushes Tom back more effectively than my hands do. And then the boy, so unacceptably gorgeous, just stares at me.
His blue eyes hold a strange, cool fire, but his statuesque face remains emotionless. I feel like I want to shake him.
"That's enough," I repeat myself softly, somehow feeling the need to underline my previous statement. And suddenly I feel terribly worn out, exhausted from the long years of bloodshed, from the losses and the pain. I am too old for this, I think to myself, despite my twenty five years of age. I am past the stage of developing crushes, of touching myself in the shower or writing little notes; I am in the business of holding the world's weight on my shoulder now. I have energy for little more than this excruciating duty.
"Why would it be enough, when it is so perfectly clear to both of us that this… attraction is both strong and mutual? If you truly were so strongly opposed to the idea of engaging in sexual activities with such a young individual, you would be genuinely unable to become aroused by this. And yet aroused you are, and I can tell. So please, stop using your morality as an excuse to avoid losing control over the nature of our rather unhealthy relationship, Potter," he hisses in a rather accusatory tone, angry even, and moves forward again, placing his body mere inches away from mine.
"I…" I try to begin. And then I realise I am not sure what my reply to his little bout of ire should be. He does have several good points, after all. I let myself deliberate on it for a moment, as the snowflakes keep falling between us like little dancers.
"I no longer protest to it on moral grounds, alright? It would be hypocritical, I know it would. I am simply not confident I can handle all the possible pain and the bitterness and the complications that will eventually arise from this. At least, not yet. Just let me rest a little, won't you? Don't make this more difficult for me than it already is," I mumble somewhat defensively. My words cause a shift in the texture of his eyes. The coldness subsides, and he offers me a look almost tender; a strange sort of mercy.
When he wears such warm expressions, he looks almost like an angel. That's just how utterly perfect he is, at times, and I hate myself for thinking so.
I lift my hand towards him, and I caress his smooth cheek. As he tilts his head ever so slightly in the direction of my hand, I smile. He is certainly not Voldemort yet; there is still some sweetness in him, and perhaps some understanding.
"I understand," he eventually utters, a little disappointedly, but without grudge.
"You do?" I question him, genuinely surprised at this odd expression of empathy from his part. He is not one to generally talk this way. He has a history of putting his own desires above all other things, actually.
"Why would I not? It makes perfect sense, after all, that you would not want to involve yourself in such complex, twisted and dangerous matters before you feel the purpose of your mission has been safely fulfilled. Your desire to prevent me from becoming Voldemort is stronger than your desire for me per se, and you would not want to act upon the latter without ensuring the first one first, since you believe yourself not currently strong enough to balance both at the same time, right?" he deduces, his tone light and factual.
"That would be… an accurate description of my reasoning. Just add the factor of my feeling rather drained by my recent experiences, and of my fearing that this kind of thing might awaken the worst in both of us at a moment when we are both unable to handle it," I tell him. My hand is still somewhere around his cheek, and suddenly he grabs it and bites it, lightly but not without pressure.
"What you call the… worst in both of us will eventually come to the surface though, as I am sure you know, Harry. And I honestly do wonder if we will be readier then than we are now," he mutters darkly as he lets my hand go, and once again his eyes are strangely lit.
"We will be," I state with as much confidence as I can manage. He does not look entirely convinced, but he shifts and nods his head in acceptance of my words anyway.
"Alright. I'll attempt to hold back then, for the sake of our souls or whatnot, if I manage. But I honestly would not trust someone like myself to be able to suppress desire for too long a time, really; I'm not really the self-sacrificial kind, as you might know. I get what I want. Let's hope I'll manage to give us enough time for you to deem us prepared. But before we return to the cottage and hide our inner conflicts behind cheeriness or apathy, I need you to kiss me," he whispers seductively but also matter-of-factly, with a strange and sickly saccharine quality to his voice.
Under his greedy gaze, my chest tightens and I bite back a low groan, for he is seriously very apt at pushing my buttons.
"I kissed you already. I did not push you back, Riddle. Was that not what you wanted?" I say, trying to avoid any further entanglement. And yet I know what he is going to say; I know what he wants.
"No. You did not exactly kiss me, assistant professor; you kissed me back within the boundaries of an action that I both triggered and induced. I want you to do this from the beginning, willingly, and fully under your own control. I am willing to comply to your demand for temporary constraint, but I do want this in exchange. Quid pro quo," The young Slytherin explains, and of course it is just as I had expected. He wants to feel, to know that I desire him outside of his own created circumstances; perhaps he is tired of being in control of situations, of manipulating.
And so I reach out for him obediently and crash onto his lips, enveloping him with both arms and pulling his body onto mine. The sensation of the friction between us is exquisite, and his maliciously strategic submissiveness is strangely arousing. He gives himself passively, and yet in his passivity there is demandingness and desire.
The blood running in my veins turns hot at his endless eagerness.
And it is exactly this attitude of his that is threatening to bring out the worst in me, for I discover myself to be grabbing his hair and pushing his delicate head backwards as I run my mouth along his jawline. What a demon. He knows just what he needs to do in order to unleash me from my composed, controlled state.
He pushes his lithe physique onto me in a way almost needy. His long fingers grab my collar and pull me towards him, and he throws his head back even more. My own head unwillingly moves towards his neck, gliding lower across the velvety skin. Although his colours and thin, angular shapes make his beauty a rather cold one, his body is radiating raw heat. It is almost screaming for me to unleash it from its restraints, right here, in the middle of the snow. And there's nothing I'd love to do more than that.
But no. Just no. I won't let him have it his way, I think to myself, and I let him go, stepping backwards. I must pull myself together. I can't let him manipulate me into assaulting him, as he seems to desire.
"Will that do?" I inquire neutrally, catching my breath and thanking myself for displaying such astonishing willpower. I am a good man after all.
"Yes, that was exactly what I had in mind," he hisses with a small smirk toying on his lips, his hair messy and his eyes ominously bright. He looks like an incubus that has just been fed, and it is both appealing and slightly frightening.
For Merlin's sake, he is just four-fucking-teen.
By the time we return to Albus' cottage, there is no sign on us of anything having occurred. Other than some meaningful conversation, maybe. Tom's hair is once again neatly parted to the side, and his skin is as pallid as ever. He breathes in the most homogeneous, calm manner possible, and his moves are controlled and elegant. As for me, I try to be my usual, rather messy self. I grin happily at the older wizards that are languorously chatting in the living room, and pick up a cookie.
Riddle's PoV
How curious that he, who is in many ways appears to represent the archetypal Gryffindor, would be such a talented actor, so smoothly making his way into Apple-core's conversation, his face bright and kind and caring; and I cannot help but admire how someone as deeply honest as he is can make his expression lie when needed. I repress a smile of knowing endearment as I watch him pick up a ridiculously overdecorated piece of biscuit, using his best kind-hearted and slightly goofy grin, and so easily earn the tenderness of both elder wizards; all as if nothing were.
And there I thought I was the hypocrite in this situation. Dear me what a miscalculation it would have been had I underestimated his cunning, and mistaken him for a foe I could take down easily by plotting and acting alone; and thank Morgana he is not actually a true foe of mine, at least not fully.
As for me, I decide not to bother exchanging interesting pleasantries accompanied with tea and cookies; greeting the auburn-haired professor politely and nodding to his German companion, I excuse myself with grace, and notify them of my desire to retire to a rather more private surrounding.
As I make my way smoothly and silently to my shared guest quarters, I experience the slightly overwhelming sensation of my heartbeat throbbing right where his insatiable lips had previously lingered; my mouth, cheek, jaw and neckline are all unusually warm, and I compulsively slide my elongated fingers down the scandalous path his tongue had followed.
Oh, I had been rather certain it would be most deliciously fulfilling to experience him expressing his desire so powerfully; and yet even I hadn't expected what an earthshaking, momentous, epochal feeling it had been, drawing out his most exquisite, domineering part, that must have long been dormant behind his excellent mental defence and his hardened, weathered personality. The Harry Potter I saw today was the most alluring, most sensual and powerful individual I have ever had the good grace to meet; for these few seconds I saw him for the masterful, glorious wizard he truly is, and I have no further doubt about my emotions.
I want this man to be mine, and whatever personal sacrifices, difficult choices or Machiavellian demagoguery it might require, when the right time comes he will be mine.
Refreshed and reinvigorated by the purifying sensations of unrestrained lust and avarice, I smile to myself triumphantly and ruffle my own hair a little; and I am so deeply satisfied that I do not even have the time to mock myself for being such a pathetic hedonist. The existential ennui clearly chased away by my delightful entanglement with the green man, my world-weariness slowly vanishes into a sea of revitalised creativity; perhaps a peculiar sort of afterglow.
Nevertheless, and despite the immense pleasure I am certain it brought to both of us, I comprehend the reasons why such an occurrence cannot be repeated in the immediate future; the time-traveler believes that my soul is at stake, and even though I do feel ready to be given what I desire, I would not want to trick him into acting against what he believes to be right. Additionally, I understand his concern about this sort of debauchery pulling out to the surface the most dangerous parts of us, quietly hosted underneath our everyday personas, and I do realise that even though this dark, ravenous, tempestuous Harry I met I found immensely attractive, he might be equally deranged.
After all, I am familiar with the mechanics of coexisting with the dark, ill and damaged parts of one's minds, and I do know that it is best not to lure them out thoughtlessly; and deep down, I am not entirely sure I am ready to come face to face with the Voldemort in me, either.
According to the notable Leo Nikolayevich Tolstoy, "the two most powerful warriors are patience and time", and thus, despite my thirsty, feverish predisposition I shall, for the time being, follow the great Russian visionary's advice and endure.
"You sssmell like hormonesss, Tom, dearessst," a mellifluous serpentine voice hisses from somewhere within the tangled bed-sheets, and soon after Nagini's aristocratic, calligraphic head slithers out between the heavy folds, her amber, chatoyant eyes glistening with intense interest. With a tasteful movement I bring my arm forth for her to climb, and indeed she wraps her majestic, emerald body around my long limb, eyeing me with unhidden curiosity as she makes her way up to my shoulders.
"I have been engaging in activitiesss with rather intensse sssexual undertones," I explain succinctly to my pulchritudinous familiar, caressing her smooth head with soft, gentle moves; I would have liked to perhaps offer her more details, but it appears I am still not well able to express the enticing images forever carved in my mind with words, despite my usual eloquence.
"Ah, I sssee. The time-traveller, yess? He will make a fine mate for you, I think. But you shouldn't be hasssty, better sssafe than sssory, yess?" she observes rather casually, her little forked tongue flicking in and out of her dangerous but beauteous jaws, and she rubs herself lazily onto my slender neck, in an endearingly amicable manner.
"Don't go imagining quixotic, halcyon momentsss of languid abandon, sssnakeling. It wasss merely a few intensse but otherwise innocuous kisses," I swiftly underline, causing her luminous eyes to narrow somewhat, in a clear manifestation of incredulity and unbelief. "Although I am not exactly ssertain of what the lassst part of your sstatement wass ssupossed to hint at, beloved ssserpent," I consequently add, hoping for her to elaborate a little more on the possible disaster my hastiness could bring about, as to enlighten me about the further reasons why I should practice patience and thus help me convince myself to do so.
"Jusst ssaying…" she hisses at me sweetly and cryptically, with her hypnotising eyes oddly knowing, unwilling to indulge my curiosity as she rubs her head against my lower jaw affectionately, before contracting her body and jumping off my shoulder. I decide not to push it any further, since I am not too sure how threatening and intimidating I could possibly manage to be in the face of a lethal magical snake, and doubt my ability to worm information out of said snake in any other way.
My complex thoughts on the possible methods one could use in order to outwit an animal known to symbolise the very essence of cunning are interrupted by Jungle-lore's cheerful voice, calling me to join them for lunch in a cringe-inducingly mother-like manner. Knowing full well that it is rather unwise to defy the old meddling fool's wishes, the memory of a certain flower bed incident still fresh within my traumatised mind, I grumpily but, as always, elegantly oblige, and make my quiet appearance at the living room before greeingt the older wizards in a neutral but polite way.
Gellert Grindelwald has an oddly meaningful smirk plastered on his devious but strangely handsome face as he sips his scented tea in a soft, serene manner, I notice warily, and I briefly wonder whether he somehow managed to deduce the nature of my private talk with Potter; yet I conclude that to be very unlikely, even though he is, after all, and despite the fact it has not actually quite sunk in, the great and terribly Lord Grindelwald. After all, we both did a frighteningly adequate job at masking any trace of whatever happened between us. Nonetheless, I am relieved to realise the German wizard's expression is directed towards his slightly insane but overly wise partner, who is currently placing placing hands on the kitsch table and putting on a majestic expression, as if ready to make some kind of grand announcement; and indeed, he proceeds in making one.
"I have long thought about the nature of your time-traveling young Harry, and I have come to suspect a few things. I have actually come to believe that your vision of me was in no way a coincidence, and that perhaps I, or maybe my future self, am actually partly responsible for creating this time-space ripple. And yet, I am hoping that had I done something so reckless, I would have left a message for myself about it. Would you mind showing me again the memory of that curious vision you had, please?" he states in a grave and thoughtful manner, and I suddenly do not find him that comical anymore; it is one of these rare times when the auburn-haired professor looks every bit the impressive and frighteningly powerful wizard he truly is, and when I realise that I am in the company of really exceptional individuals, that can meddle with time, space, life, death.
Harry Potter looks a little confused for a second, but then his light and friendly expression also moulds into one of pensiveness and gravity, while the interest and intensity flaring up within his lethally green eyes make him look terribly attractive and imposing; he approaches his future mentor, and even though nothing is visible to the eye, I can almost feel the information flowing between their minds through their stable and unwavering eye-contact.
Legillimency comes natural to them, I observe.
During that moment, I feel almost intimidated by the knowledge that these people surrounding me, the two eccentric and peculiar old geezers and that slightly goofy time-traveler, are amongst the chief forces moulding the fate of wizardkind and manipulating the flow of history; subsequently, I feel somewhat envious of their said status, and I simply cannot wait to reach and then triumphantly surpass their power.
Furthermore, a small part of my traitorous mind cannot help but admire Harry Potter's sculpted face, and the lovely, hard, masculine features, so criminally flattered by his deadly serious expression; another thing I simply cannot wait for is grabbing this enigma of a man and unleashing upon him weeks of sexual tension and suppressed, twisted desires, although I very well know that I will be unable to do so in the immediate future, seeing as I am merely a boy.
For the first time in my life, I feel thus left behind both in terms of magical and sexual maturity, and despite my general self-esteem and the full knowledge of my own power, intellect and physical appeal, a wave of unfathomable disappointment at being just fourteen rises inside my chest; it is cruel to be a child when on has never had the chance to truly be one.