A/N: this had been thrashing around in my brain for a while, and it finally clawed itself
out. It's bizarre, strange and true to me, agnsty. So I now present to you this strange and
twisted tale, which will be the last of my Harry Potter fanfiction.
Disclaimer: no own, no sue.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`
The moon creates shafts of light on the dark bedspread; it streams through the gaps in the
thick velvet drapes in narrow stripes, creating a pattern along the bed and walls.
Light, dark, light, dark.
He sits in one of the dark patches. How long he has sat there, he doesn't know. Minutes,
hours, days, lifetimes?
On the large vanity a single candle burns, the only other light in the room. It reflects off
the mirror and into his eyes.
Dark, pensive soulful eyes.
He raises his hands slightly, bringing them up into the moonlight, watching in fascination
as the light blends with his pale pale skin. Then one hand grasps a sleeve, and carefully
he draws the cloth up and away. Carefully, for it still burns.
The skull and serpent look back at him. Ink black, bold against the pale flesh.
He drops the sleeve.
There are a million and one reasons why he is here, a million and one reasons why he
shouldn't be here. But he is here, and right now, that's what matters.
He slips off, the bed, feet noiseless on the thick carpet. He is barefooted, wearing nothing
but a simple white shift. He has not changed since the initiation ceremony, which was not
really a ceremony, since it was just the two of them. The two of them in that cold room,
were he stood shivering, but unafraid, resolved to this, determined, but not afraid.
His mind is blissfully blank. All questions, doubt and fears long since absolved. He has
done what he wanted to do, what he needed to do.
He makes his way across the room that was prepared for him. Stops at the vanity and
softly fingers the dark robe waiting for him. Thick material, soft under his skin, he knows
it will be heavy to wear; the dark material will weigh him down. But it will be warm. And
he has been so cold.
There is no mask.
Too beautiful for one, he had been told, as the man calmly stroked his forearm, preparing
to brand him.
His hands grasp the robe, pull it off the polished wood, shake it out to its full length. It
sweeps the ground in rich dark folds, sucking in the moonlight, the candlelight, leaving
nothing behind. He lays it out on the bed, across the shafts of light.
Light, dark, light, dark. Black, black, black, black.
There is no difference.
With slightly trembling fingers he undoes the white shift. It slips down to pool at his feet,
forming a small puddle of white on the floor. He steps out of it.
A weight is lifted from him.
For a while he simply stares at the black cloth lying on the bed. Head cocked, eyes
unreadable.
Then suddenly he takes the robe and drops it over his head. At once he is engulfed in
thick warm fabric. It is soft against his skin; it is warm, and………….comforting.
A new weight settles.
There is no mask, but there is a hood. This he draws. His face is suddenly cast in
shadows.
He reseats himself upon the bed, waiting. Not even moonlight can touch his skin
anymore. He has forsaken the harshness of the light. Its edges are sharp, and they have
pricked him for their own purpose far too many a time.
He has gone to the shadows.
He waits in the room. Calm and ready. Accepting.
Dawn will break in a few hours, and when it does; Lord Voldemort will arrive and find
his new apprentice waiting for him. He will smile.
And Harry Potter will smile back.
~Fin.~
out. It's bizarre, strange and true to me, agnsty. So I now present to you this strange and
twisted tale, which will be the last of my Harry Potter fanfiction.
Disclaimer: no own, no sue.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`
The moon creates shafts of light on the dark bedspread; it streams through the gaps in the
thick velvet drapes in narrow stripes, creating a pattern along the bed and walls.
Light, dark, light, dark.
He sits in one of the dark patches. How long he has sat there, he doesn't know. Minutes,
hours, days, lifetimes?
On the large vanity a single candle burns, the only other light in the room. It reflects off
the mirror and into his eyes.
Dark, pensive soulful eyes.
He raises his hands slightly, bringing them up into the moonlight, watching in fascination
as the light blends with his pale pale skin. Then one hand grasps a sleeve, and carefully
he draws the cloth up and away. Carefully, for it still burns.
The skull and serpent look back at him. Ink black, bold against the pale flesh.
He drops the sleeve.
There are a million and one reasons why he is here, a million and one reasons why he
shouldn't be here. But he is here, and right now, that's what matters.
He slips off, the bed, feet noiseless on the thick carpet. He is barefooted, wearing nothing
but a simple white shift. He has not changed since the initiation ceremony, which was not
really a ceremony, since it was just the two of them. The two of them in that cold room,
were he stood shivering, but unafraid, resolved to this, determined, but not afraid.
His mind is blissfully blank. All questions, doubt and fears long since absolved. He has
done what he wanted to do, what he needed to do.
He makes his way across the room that was prepared for him. Stops at the vanity and
softly fingers the dark robe waiting for him. Thick material, soft under his skin, he knows
it will be heavy to wear; the dark material will weigh him down. But it will be warm. And
he has been so cold.
There is no mask.
Too beautiful for one, he had been told, as the man calmly stroked his forearm, preparing
to brand him.
His hands grasp the robe, pull it off the polished wood, shake it out to its full length. It
sweeps the ground in rich dark folds, sucking in the moonlight, the candlelight, leaving
nothing behind. He lays it out on the bed, across the shafts of light.
Light, dark, light, dark. Black, black, black, black.
There is no difference.
With slightly trembling fingers he undoes the white shift. It slips down to pool at his feet,
forming a small puddle of white on the floor. He steps out of it.
A weight is lifted from him.
For a while he simply stares at the black cloth lying on the bed. Head cocked, eyes
unreadable.
Then suddenly he takes the robe and drops it over his head. At once he is engulfed in
thick warm fabric. It is soft against his skin; it is warm, and………….comforting.
A new weight settles.
There is no mask, but there is a hood. This he draws. His face is suddenly cast in
shadows.
He reseats himself upon the bed, waiting. Not even moonlight can touch his skin
anymore. He has forsaken the harshness of the light. Its edges are sharp, and they have
pricked him for their own purpose far too many a time.
He has gone to the shadows.
He waits in the room. Calm and ready. Accepting.
Dawn will break in a few hours, and when it does; Lord Voldemort will arrive and find
his new apprentice waiting for him. He will smile.
And Harry Potter will smile back.
~Fin.~