Cool Marble
Following his resurrection, Voldemort, Dark Lord and glorious future ruler
of the Wizarding World, spent the vast majority of his nights awake,
wandering the halls of the Riddle mansion with a determined restlessness
that sent his closest minions to trembling. Wormtail and the others were
well aware of the brutality of his mood swings and, not wanting to end up
on the receiving end of their master's formidable Cruciatus curse, they
generally stayed as far out of his way as possible while still making
themselves available to his every whim. Generally, their method of
managing this feat of solicitousness expressed itself with one final late
evening check-in with the Dark Lord before escaping to the relative safety
of the sleeping quarters. Voldemort allowed them to assume that he
eventually retired there as well, pausing for a few minutes in his
wanderings to casually rumple up his bedclothes and toss a robe or two
about his room for someone to pick up in the morning. No one ever said
that in order to rule the globe one must also be tidy.
He moved carefully through the rooms of the mansion, pausing only occasionally to scrutinize a book left behind on a sofa by one of his mindless minions or sometimes to graze his fingers lightly across a particularly smooth bit of paneling. He had existed for so long without sensation, without a body with which to feed his need for touch, for contact. Even as a youth, burdened with that ridiculous name, Voldemort had been a consummate sensualist. He had missed his small indulgences during his exile of formlessness, and he intended to make up for that loss.
He'd had his fill of death's sharp embrace; he'd kissed that razor's edge quite long enough, thank you. He had a body once more, and the very air through which he moved was a banquet of delight.
Voldemort stood at a window of the Riddle mansion, staring into the beauty of the night. He ran his hands (hands!) down the front of the richly embroidered robes Lucius had provided, still vaguely disbelieving. His fingers spidered across the fastenings of his robe and it began to gape open to expose pale flesh, translucent in the moonlight. Voldemort turned away from the window, his robe slipping off one shoulder, toward a tall mirror at the opposite end of the room. As he approached it, his eyes never once left the glass, enraptured by the dim glow of his own body in the darkness. The exposed flesh peeking between the rich folds of heavy fabric was smooth and cool beneath his fingertips. He shrugged and let the robe fall slowly, caressing his back on its decent.
His body was a marvel in the moonlight. Spare, firm, bands of lean muscle rippling beneath impossibly pale skin with every movement. He was whipcord thin, but every inch of his body seemed to be chiseled from the purest white marble. He rotated in a slow circle, inspecting himself with growing approval, running fingernails lightly across virgin flesh. It was perfect. His body had become the purest reflection of himself without enhancement or embellishment. Voldemort's lipless mouth twisted in satisfaction. He was fearsome and beautiful. The world would tremble.
Without pausing to gather his garments, the Dark Lord stepped through a doorway out into the moonlight.
He moved carefully through the rooms of the mansion, pausing only occasionally to scrutinize a book left behind on a sofa by one of his mindless minions or sometimes to graze his fingers lightly across a particularly smooth bit of paneling. He had existed for so long without sensation, without a body with which to feed his need for touch, for contact. Even as a youth, burdened with that ridiculous name, Voldemort had been a consummate sensualist. He had missed his small indulgences during his exile of formlessness, and he intended to make up for that loss.
He'd had his fill of death's sharp embrace; he'd kissed that razor's edge quite long enough, thank you. He had a body once more, and the very air through which he moved was a banquet of delight.
Voldemort stood at a window of the Riddle mansion, staring into the beauty of the night. He ran his hands (hands!) down the front of the richly embroidered robes Lucius had provided, still vaguely disbelieving. His fingers spidered across the fastenings of his robe and it began to gape open to expose pale flesh, translucent in the moonlight. Voldemort turned away from the window, his robe slipping off one shoulder, toward a tall mirror at the opposite end of the room. As he approached it, his eyes never once left the glass, enraptured by the dim glow of his own body in the darkness. The exposed flesh peeking between the rich folds of heavy fabric was smooth and cool beneath his fingertips. He shrugged and let the robe fall slowly, caressing his back on its decent.
His body was a marvel in the moonlight. Spare, firm, bands of lean muscle rippling beneath impossibly pale skin with every movement. He was whipcord thin, but every inch of his body seemed to be chiseled from the purest white marble. He rotated in a slow circle, inspecting himself with growing approval, running fingernails lightly across virgin flesh. It was perfect. His body had become the purest reflection of himself without enhancement or embellishment. Voldemort's lipless mouth twisted in satisfaction. He was fearsome and beautiful. The world would tremble.
Without pausing to gather his garments, the Dark Lord stepped through a doorway out into the moonlight.