Harry James Potter slipped out of the ballroom silently. He softly closed the doors behind him and crossed the balcony to lean against the balustrade. The cool evening wind stroked his face and he breathed in deeply. Finally a moment of peace, Harry thought to himself in relief. He allowed himself a few moments of star gazing, looking at nothing in particular, just taking in the dark sky and trying to block out the noise from the party he'd escaped.
From inside his robes he fished out his packet of muggle cigarettes and lit one with just a thought. Taking a deep drag, he closed his eyes, savouring the taste and felt the tension bleed from his limbs.
The Litha, or Midsummer as it was commonly known, Balls were not uncommon, though Harry rarely ever attended one. Every year a family was selected to arrange and host the party for the celebration of the start of summer and the turning point in the year, where power is returned to the dark.
Having no close friends or allies he had been lucky to avoid going to any festivities, even when his parents and siblings had attended. This year, however, it had been unavoidable.
This year it was the Potter's turn to host the ball. It wasn't their first time but Harry had been young enough before that he'd been allowed to mix with the other children and not have to stand with his parents and greet the guests.
Now he was eighteen and this time he hadn't been able to get out of the duty. He had been very jealous of his brother and sister who, after half the guests had arrived, had been allowed to leave the entrance hall and join the party. Not that Harry had been particularly enthusiastic about joining the ballroom to dance and make small talk with the wizarding worlds various brown-nosers and bootlickers.
However, it was preferable to greeting guests, which was a tedious and infuriating task. Particularly when their guests had suptly (and some not so subtly) disparaged his Mother for her blood.
She, unlike others he could name, had proven herself to be a valuable member of society. With Charms and Potions Masteries under her belt she had become an Unspeakable and had made many contributions to the research of magic.
Harry hated balls and would much rather lurk in a corner somewhere with a glass of whatever alcohol was closest. Better yet, he would prefer the ball had not taken place all together and he could be curled up with a book in the library or else practicing magic in the quiet of his bedroom.
That hadn't been possible however, and the last three hours after the final guests had arrived had been filled with meaningless small talk about how glorious the weather was, or how magnificently the Potter's had dressed up their manor. There had been plenty of dancing with various important daughters and mindless chatter with people he had gone to school with, but had never been close to.
That's not to say he didn't enjoy watching others interact. One can tell a lot about people if they just took a moment to observe and Harry rather enjoyed watching people. He particularly enjoyed watching them take each other apart with veiled treats and honey coated words. However, he didn't enjoy being part of it.
He was intelligent, this he knew, but the games and contests of society escaped him. He always felt too slow, too slow to realise a game had started and too slow think of responses until hours after the fact.
At one time socialising hadn't been so difficult. Despite his secluded upbringing, going to Hogwarts had been a fresh start for him. He had talked to many of his year mates and had gotten on with everyone, though he had never made any true, close friends. Except for his fellow Ravenclaw, Luna Lovegood. Even there he often wondered if they were close enough to be considered friends.
Not that he particularly minded if they weren't. He couldn't afford to have people close to him. Couldn't allow someone to get to know who he truly was. Even his family didn't know the true Harry.
He wandlessly vanished his finished cigarette and rested both elbows on the balustrade that looked over the Potter grounds and took in the familiar sights of his home.
The garden below him was filled with many potions ingredients and common flowers, lovingly grown and kept by his mother, there was a small forest that ringed the property and in the distance, a Quidditch pitch.
He slowly relaxed more, tuning out the sound of the revelry behind him and allowed his masks to fall. He allowed himself this moment to be himself. No fake smiles or cheer. No fake interest in others lives. Just himself, breathing in the summer air, alone, as he preferred.
During the summer holidays before his fifth year his parents had introduced him to… that man. A man he wouldn't even allow himself to name in his own head.
He had told Harry his supposed destiny. A Prophecy, uttered before he was born. One that the Dark Lord apparently knew about but had done nothing in regards to. A prophecy that said he, Harry, was one of two candidates who could vanquish the Dark Lord.
He had scoffed at this, still scoffed at it. That anyone could kill the ruler of Britain was a ridiculous thought. Not counting the fact the man was apparently immortal, he was also the most powerful being in Britain, if not the world. He could wield magic as easy as breathing, it was said his power was unmatched and certainly couldn't be matched by a child of fifteen.
His parents had known his supposed role and, though they apparently weren't happy that he would have to fight the Dark Lord, they were supportive of the idea and believed in the prophecy. When he had learnt that, a lot of things about his life had started to make sense.
How, when he was young, his parents had kept him hidden away in Potter Manor, rarely ever allowing him to leave. He had never been to Diagon Alley or to Quidditch matches or any other wizarding settlement. Other than his own house, he had only ever been to his Godfather's house.
When he'd gone to Hogwarts his parents had warned him against letting anyone know just how smart he was, they told him to do well in school but never show just how talented he could be.
They started training him, training him as if they weren't just going to point him at their enemy and expect him not to die.
His Father and Godfather had shown him not just how to duel but how to fight, as if normal, basic, light spells were any good against a Master of the Dark Arts.
His Mother taught him potions he could use in a fight, one's to harden his skin or make his spells temporarily more powerful. Strong pain killing potions and ones to heal. Temporary fixes to help him last long enough to survive until he could receive proper healing.
All this and he was forbidden to ever let anyone else know just how skilled he was.
Though, as he grew older, he started to resent them he had done as his guardians had asked, never letting on to his professors or fellow students that he was much smarter than he was. That the theory was easy to grasp and the magic even easier. He had withdrawn from his friends, too scared to allow them to be close to him.
If anyone found out his parents, and him by association, were part of the rebel group anyone he was close to would fall under suspicion. Allowing anyone to get close to him put them all in danger. The more people he interacted with the more chances they had to learn of his parents loyalties.
He hated his parents as much as he loved them but he couldn't allow them to be found out. This would have them, himself and perhaps even his siblings be pulled on to a stage and executed, likely being tortured for information before hand.
He sighed sadly as he allowed the last of his masks to drop.
He had been dreading today as soon as he'd known the Potters would host this year's ball. He longed for the day when he could drop all of his masks completely. When he didn't have to be the prophesied saviour to his parents, or the doting older brother. Where he didn't need to talk to people he had no care or time for.
He knew, one day, he would become the Potter Lord and he would need to wear masks, to hide his distain for the general populace and his disgust at those who would try to use him on their way to the top. Until then, he wished he didn't need to use his masks, wished he could just be Harry.
He pulled out another cigarette and sighed again. This was his last pack, he would need to sneak into the muggle world soon and get some more. He would go at night and hit the clubs too, see if he couldn't hook up with someone.
He absentmindedly lit his cigarette as he thought over the times he had gone to the muggle world. He'd started going when he was in his sixth year and, using an aging potion, had started clubbing.
This was where he'd had his first sexual encounter. She had been a blond woman, older than himself and wearing a very short dress and uncomfortable looking heels.
They'd snogged in a corner of the room, hands roaming everywhere they could reach. Before long they'd ended up in an alley and Harry had lost his virginity pressing the woman up against the wall surrounded by stinking bags of waste. He knew he hadn't done the act well but it hadn't mattered at the time, especially as he'd obliviated the muggle woman after.
It wasn't until his third time that he'd picked up the habit of smoking. That had been a sharply dressed man called Josh who had light brown hair and a perpetual smile.
They'd gone back to Josh's flat which he shared with a few others. They were students who couldn't afford places of their own. They had stayed up for a while, drinking and smoking before tumbling into Josh's bed and Harry had lost his virginity in whole other way. It had been good, very good. After sex they'd smoked a few more cigarettes before Harry had wiped Josh's memory and left.
He took another drag as he reminisced about his favourite sexual encounter. It had been just after the Yule holiday last year when the pressure and loneliness of his masks were starting to weigh him down.
After a stressful holiday with his family he'd hoped that retuning to Hogwarts would give him the break he'd needed. Unfortunately that hadn't happened.
Instead, the pressure of making sure his scores never reflected his competence had only made an already stressful year even more so. Even sneaking into the Forbidden Forest to curse various creatures hadn't taken the edge off. So he'd taken an aging potion and hit the muggle clubs.
The woman who had taken him to her home that night had been the oldest one he'd been with, though that hadn't bothered him. She had taken him by surprise, simply walking up to him at the bar and telling him he was going home with her. Harry had only taken a second to look her up and down before agreeing and they took a short cab ride to her house.
For the rest of the night she had continued to order him around and while, normally, he hated people telling him what to do he had he had found an odd freedom in it. In not needing to be in perfect control or to make the decisions.
After ordering him to strip she had tied him to her bed and blindfolded him. She had then proceeded to bite and kiss, to lick and suck and to scratch and slap and caress him. Bringing him pain and pleasure in equal measure. She had made him plead and beg, desperate with the need for release.
In the end, when she had finally, finally, allowed him to cum it had been the best orgasm he'd ever reached. It had been liberating.
Afterwards, when she had untied him and taken the blindfold off, he'd lay trembling in the middle of her bed and done something he hadn't done since childhood. He'd cried. She'd held him close, stroked his hair and peppered him with soft kisses until he'd fallen asleep.
He had only been back to the muggle world for cigarettes since he'd finished school. The two partners he'd been with after her had been too gentle, too soft. Too hesitant to cause him pain and he'd left them feeling more frustrated than when he'd gone out.
Anyway he'd found a different way of find release through pain. Found it in the form of a cold knife and the soft flesh of his arms. When it all became too much, when his emotions and the noise in his head got too loud, he could spend what felt like hours cutting bloody lines into his arm.
Never too deep. Never enough to cause actual damage. Just enough to feel the sharp bite of the blade. He would stare, fascinated, as the cuts welled up with bright red blood. He would lick at them, sucking and tasting his own life. His mind would calm, his emotions cool and in those moments he would feel in control again.
It wasn't enough, not really, but it helped.
Harry knew it was wrong and unhealthy. He knew happy, normal, healthy people didn't do it. So he punished himself for his moments of weakness. He never magically healed the cuts but made himself endure the weeks of soreness and itching and clothes pulling at the scabs as they healed the muggle way and left scars.
His fingers twitched with the temptation to get his knife out but took another drag of his cigarette in an attempt to fight down the urge. Thankfully the choice was taken from him as a smooth unfamiliar voice came from behind him.
"Well, well, who would have thought the Potter heir was a smoker." Harry turned around quickly and saw an unfamiliar man stood in front of the closed doors.
He was tall and slim with thick black hair that framed his face in an effortless way that Harry's never would. He was very handsome with high cheekbones and pale skin. The stranger was dressed in expensive black robes trimmed in silver and was holding a glass of toffee coloured liquid in his left hand.
From his perfectly styled hair to his confident stance he exuded power and Harry's breathe caught as he felt the man's magic. This too was powerful and it was darker than any he had felt before.
Darker than Nocturn Alley or any of the books or artefacts he'd come across while exploring the alley. It reminded him of dark chocolate and wood fires. Of thunderstorms and secrets and all things forbidden.
"Muggle cigarettes? I thought those were illegal?" The man questioned, raising an eyebrow.
"If you're going to report me, at least wait until I've finished smoking." Harry requested, suddenly angry that his quiet moment was interrupted. He was too worn out to bother masking, plus he could never switch between masks as quickly as other people could.
He wasn't too bothered about being reported as both his Father and Godfather were Aurors. While going into the muggle world would see him in Azkaban for a few months, owning muggle contraband would get him no more than a slap on the wrist and a small fine. As long as Harry never admitted to actually getting the cigarettes from the muggle world he would probably get less than that.
The stranger hummed before responding. "I suppose if I were to join you I'd have to report myself too." He said with a small grin. The man stepped up to Harry until they were only an arm length away.
Now the man was closer Harry could see his eyes were dark brown with hints of red and they were framed by thick long eyelashes. Harry also noticed that while his robes were black they had a green sheen to them when he moved in the light. He wondered what material it was, it looked silky and his fingers twitched. He wanted to feel it - to see if his guess was correct.
Distracted as he was, Harry was surprised when the man plucked the cigarette from his fingers. He watched in disbelief as the stranger brought it to his lips and took a long drag. Harry was captivated for a moment by the way those lips looked wrapped around the filter and from the smirk he received, the stranger had noticed him looking.
Harry's eyes snapped up angrily. "If you wanted one I would have happily have given you one." He said venomously. Really, the audacity of the man.
"Ah, but a stolen one tastes much better." He replied and Harry heard amusement in his voice. He didn't really know what to say to that so he decided to change the subject.
"Who are you? I didn't see you in the receiving line." He asked quite rudely as he grabbed himself another cigarette and lit it with barely a thought.
"You wouldn't have, I arrived rather late." Came the smooth reply, dodging Harry's first question. "Tell me Mr Potter, what do you plan to do now you've left Hogwarts?"
Harry was taken aback by the question but made no move to answer it. He certainly wasn't going to answer the man's questions if he wouldn't answer Harry's.
"You graduated top of your class with impressive grades, though not unsurprising ones for a Ravenclaw. Will you follow your Father and become an Auror or perhaps join your Mother in the Department of Mysteries? Or maybe you'll aim for something higher, a Death Eater perhaps?"
Death Eaters were a group left over from the war. They were the elite, the Dark Lord's personal army. Not that the man needed an army as he was a one man army by himself but the Dark Lord had elevated those who supported him during the war, allowing them liberties others wouldn't ever be allowed.
Getting accepted as a Death Eater was not easy though that didn't stop people from trying. Every year in August hundreds of people turned up for recruitment day but only a handful made it through the first trail. Even less than that were ever marked. Before his fifth year Harry had fantasised about joining them.
Though his Father was a Lord, marrying a Muggleborn (and both of them being on the wrong side of the war) had seen his, and his families, standing in society plummet.
Harry had thought that if he became a Death Eater it would raise his families standing, it would make it easier for his siblings to advance in life and they would no longer be looked down upon by the Pureblood elite. It would have worked too.
He knew the Weasley's oldest had become a Death Eater for the very same reason. The Weasley's were now elevated from their poor blood-traitor status to, not quite elite, but a better standing than they were before.
"What's it to you?" Harry asked harshly. "Who are you? You from the Department of Recruitment or something?" He knew he was being rude but couldn't bring himself to care. The Department of Recruitment did as its title suggested, anyone wanting a Ministry job or to become a Death Eater would first need to sign up and be interviewed by them.
"Or something." Came the non-answer.
The man finished the cigarette and Harry watched him vanish it with a flick of his fingers. This was why he hated talking to people. Why couldn't the man just answer his questions?
He let out a frustrated sigh, flicked away and vanished his unfinished cigarette and decided to leave. He would find somewhere else to get some peace. Before he passed the man however, he spoke again.
"Marvolo Gaunt."
"What?" He snapped testily.
"My name. Marvolo Gaunt." Harry tilted his head at that. He knew that name, though he couldn't remember where from. His eyes flit over the man's face looking for a lie but either he was telling the truth or his mask was too good for Harry to see through. He looked towards the doors longingly but didn't really want to rejoin the party.
He sighed, his anger leaving him and he turned back to Gaunt who was taking a sip from his drink and watching Harry closely.
Harry shivered under that gaze. The brown-red eyes were intense, dissecting.
They reminded him of cold blue eyes that always seemed as if they could see into his soul. Those blue eyes, however, were satisfied with seeing only what they wanted to, what Harry wanted them to see.
He felt that even if he had managed to put up his masks, these eyes would tear through each and every one of them. He had never felt so stripped, so exposed and his breath caught in his chest. He swallowed thickly.
Instead of anger or frustration he started feeling another emotion, a familiar one. One that started with a squeezing in his lower belly and went deeper - straight to his groin and he had to stop himself from taking a step closer.
This close Gaunt's magic was so strong he could almost taste it. It wrapped around him and caressed his skin. He shivered again. He wanted to bask in that magic. Harry's own magic wanted to reach out to touch it, to pull it into him and have it consume him. He wanted to reach out, to run his hands over Gaunt's robes, his face and through his hair. He sucked in a shuddering breath and stepped back.
Gaunt was still watching him but now with his lips twisted into a smirk, as if he knew Harry's thoughts. How close he'd been to giving into his desire. There was no surprise on his face though, as if he was used to the attention, and he probably was.
"Well Mr Potter, now I've answered your question, will you answer mine?" He asked silkily.
"You didn't answer why you are so interested in what I want to do." What he wanted to do was no one's business but his own.
His favourite subject had been Defence Against the Dark Arts, or more specifically the Dark Arts aspect of the subject.
Of course, during class he couldn't show just how good he had been at the curses they'd learned. However, he'd often snuck out to the Forbidden Forest to practice the spells on whichever creature was unlucky enough to cross his path. Then, after he'd learnt the obliviate spell, he'd practiced on muggles.
If his parents knew just how quickly he took to the subject he knew they would be disappointed in him. More than disappointed.
They hated the Dark Arts, so much that Harry hadn't been allowed in the Black Library until Sirius had cleared out any book that was even remotely dark.
Unbeknownst to them though, Kreacher had managed to sneak many books out before his Godfather had gotten his hands on them. Books Harry had happily consumed. If they knew just how good he was and how much he truly enjoyed casting curses and delving in the secrets of darkest arts they would hate him.
It wasn't just the curses he enjoyed. He was also fascinated with wards, the delicate process of tying deadly curses into a map of magic where one wrong move could have it all blowing up in your face. He loved reading about all the impossible things made possible if one only had the determination and the power.
He was particularly fascinated in rituals. How the right ingredients placed in specific places at the right time could create life - or destroy it. With rituals one could do anything. Unfortunately learning about rituals and making rituals wasn't as easy as just finding the right books as ritual magic was restricted.
When he was younger, before Hogwarts, Harry had performed a ritual. He had been intrigued by the idea of speaking to animals. Knowing his ancestors, the Peveralls, could speak to snakes he decided he too wanted the ability. He had, stupidly - foolishly, created his own ritual. He had had no true idea what he had been doing and had just made it up from incomplete information, using the only book on rituals that Kreacher had managed to save. Even now, years later and with more knowledge under his belt, he was astounded it had worked.
He knew he could never pursue his love of the subject, not while he was in Britain and under the watchful eyes of his parents. So he'd chosen instead to continue with his second favourite subject. Ancient Runes.
However, Harry had applied to various Masters for a mastery but had received negative responses, and some with no responses at all. No one gave him a true reason of why he was denied but Harry had a feeling it was because he was a half-blood. Purebloods were always more likely to get accepted and he had been the only halfblood in his Runes class.
Because of this he had decided to take his further education into his own hands. Which meant he would have to leave Britain. This was actually the easiest decision he had ever made. Leaving Britain would mean leaving his supposed destiny behind, he would no longer need to hide who he was and he could study whichever subjects he fancied without fearing repercussions. He could learn magic that he couldn't study in Britain, he could become more powerful. To fulfil his unwanted destiny or to fight against the rebels, which ever he chose, he knew he needed more power.
"Let's call it a professional interest." Gaunt's voice pulled him out of his thoughts again. "While I am not, strictly speaking, from the Department of Recruitment, I keep an eye out for those rare few who may need a nudge in the right direction."
Well that didn't really tell Harry anything other than the fact that man was nosy. A thought came to him suddenly.
"Are you a Death Eater?" He asked, unable to keep the slight awe and wonder from bleeding into his voice. It would make sense. His power, his dark magic and riches practically screamed Death Eater.
"Not quite, I am unmarked. However, what I know, the Dark Lord knows." Cryptic.
Harry thought about it. The man wasn't a Death Eater but high up enough that he had the Dark Lord's ear. He wondered if that meant the Dark Lord had sent him to question the new graduates. Or perhaps it was only Harry and Longbottom, the other candidate of the prophecy, who had been questioned. That would make sense.
The Dark Lord had made no move against them. He could have killed them, gotten rid of the threat before they had grown. Instead he had left them alone and now wanted to know if they would be a threat to him. Well, Harry certainly never wanted his destiny and would fight against it as much as he could and all Longbottom cared about was his plants.
"I don't want to follow in my parents footsteps." He wondered if the other man knew he meant that about more than just his choice of job. "I don't think joining the Death Eaters would be a good idea either, I don't have the right skills nor do I enjoy following orders."
"You're talking about your rather poor showing in your Darks Arts class." It wasn't a question and Harry wondered just how closely he'd been watched over the years. "No matter, the right skills can be learnt. Even then, the Death Eaters are more than just soldiers, they share a variety of skills. As to following orders, anyone determined enough can move up the chain quickly until you're the one giving the orders."
He was tempted then. Tempted by the challenge and the glory. Envisioned himself as a leader, giving orders and having people listen to him. But no, it could never happen, he would have to arrest his parents or he would be killed for treason.
"I plan to travel. I want to study as much about magic as I can. I doubt I'll even return to Britain." He told the man. There, take that back to the Dark Lord, let him know that Harry would never move against him.
"Is that so?" Gaunt mused with an eyebrow raised. "In that case, it seems that Britain would be losing a valuable citizen. I do hope you change your mind in the future. I too left Britain. I travelled for ten years studying all that I could and when I returned to Britain I was much changed, stronger and even more powerful than when I left."
They lapsed into silence then. Gaunt took another sip of his drink and Harry wished he'd thought to bring a drink out with him.
However, the thought that had been niggling at the back of his mind since the man had told him his name now made itself known. This man couldn't be Marvolo Gaunt, for he had died decades ago.
He knew this because when Harry had traced his line back to Ignotus Peverell he had also looked into Cadmus's line, the one that Slytherin had been born from. That line had ended with a Tom Marvolo Riddle.
He wondered if this was him then. Riddle, who Harry had been curious about and looked up in the school records. He'd been a Slytherin, the top of his class, Prefect and Head Boy. He had an award for Special Award for Services to the School and a Medal for Magical Merit. He hadn't been able to find out what happened to him once he left Hogwarts, Harry presumed he had died or left Britain.
"It would seem this conversation is over. It has been a pleasure meeting you Mr Potter and I wish you luck for your future." Gaunt turned on his heel to leave, flicking his wrist and vanishing his finished drink.
"Wait." Harry couldn't let him leave yet. He stalked up to him until their chests were nearly touching. He needed to tilt his head back to be able to look the man in his eyes. "Who are you really? Marvolo Gaunt is dead and has been for decades." He asked, genuinely curious.
"Very good." The taller man purred after a moment of silence and Harry tried to ignore how his voice sent shivers down his frame. "You're the first one to notice that." He praised and Harry's cock twitched at the approval in the man voice.
"Or at least the first one to call you out on your bullshit." Harry countered. He tried to keep his voice steady and breathing even but standing this close to the man and his magic was making him light headed. The man's eyes flashed red and Harry's breathing stopped.
Suddenly he felt like he was staring into the eyes of a predator. Instead of scaring him it only excited him more. His mouth went dry and he licked his lips in an effort to wet them.
"Perhaps that is the case." The man conceded softly and his eyes flickered to Harry lips briefly. "I suppose then, that I am nobody."
"Nobody." Harry scoffed. "No one with your power is nobody ."
The man leant down slightly so their faces were merely a breath apart.
"What power do you perceive I have Harry?" The question was spoken softly and Harry found himself fully hard at the way his name sounded coming from those lips. The man's eyes traced over his face and down to Harry lips again and Harry thought the man wasn't as unaffected by him as his impassive expression would imply.
Feeling daring he allowed his hand to finally reach out and touch the man's robes. He was right they were silky and he lost himself for a moment just feeling them, watching his own fingers play across the material. Slowly he brought his other hand up to hook behind the man neck.
"Your power. You can't be blind to it." He murmured. "The handsome face, your captivating eyes and confidence in your own power would turn all heads towards you." He stretched onto his toes so he could whisper into the man's ear, taken aback by his own forwardness.
"You clearly have money, though you're tasteful enough not to flaunt it." His lips ghosted down the man's jaw, only just touching even though he wanted to press forward and taste him.
"I have no doubt you have a silver tongue that you could use to make anyone dance to your tune." He'd reached the man's lips now and hovered there. "All that is your power. That and your magic. Strong and dark and so enticing. Intoxicating ."
Harry sucked in a shallow breath and looked up through his eye lashes. The man's eyes looked like freshly dried blood and his pupils were blown large with lust. They looked hungry, like the man wanted nothing more than to eat him alive. Harry trembled. His tongue darted out without his permission and licked the man's bottom lip. It tasted of whiskey and tobacco.
He stepped back. Went to take another but before could, an arm shot out and a hand wrapped around his throat. The grip wasn't hard and Harry knew he could break out of it easily. Instead he leant into it adding more pressure onto his throat.
"Be careful what you start Mr Potter. I am not gentle." He warned huskily. Harry shivered again.
Good. He almost said. He didn't want gentle. He wanted pain. He wanted pleasure. He wanted to be made to forget who he was and all the expectations that came with it. He wanted this man to dominate him, to take him, to make him scream and beg.
The blood red eyes brightened, more red bleeding into them, as if the man knew what Harry was thinking. The hand around his throat tightened, almost, but not quite, cutting off his breathing as Harry was pulled closer to him.
All sound around them seemed to fade away. All Harry could hear was the rapid beat of his heart and their quiet breathing, his fast and short, the man's slow and even.
They were so close now and Harry brought his hands up to clutch the man's robes. He was quivering with desire and wanted nothing more than to press himself forwards. He didn't though. He waited, giving control over to the other man.
Beep beep.
They both froze, lips a mere breath apart.
Beep beep.
The noise was coming from Harry's pocket.
Beep beep.
"Shit." Harry said frustratingly. It was his alarm and he wanted to ignore it. He couldn't though.
Beep beep.
"Shit." Potter said again and while he wasn't prone to using expletives, Lord Voldemort found he quite agreed.
Beep beep.
He felt Potter's grip on his robes slacken and knew the young man was going to step back. He loosened his own grip and allowed him to.
Potter's hand disappeared into his bottle green robes and pulled out a pocket watch, which he then silenced with a flick of his fingers. This wasn't the first bit of wandless magic he'd seen him do and Voldemort wondered what else the man could do wandlessly.
It didn't add up. Potter's reports over the years had been of a determined and diligent child who was, unfortunately, not particularly powerful or skilled at magic. However, here he was, carelessly casting wandless magic with barely a thought. That showed him that Potter was much more powerful than he appeared. Wandless magic wasn't easy to do after all, and took plenty of power.
"I'm sorry." Potter said contritely, "The Dark Lord will be arriving soon and I must join my parents to receive him."
"I see." He replied. "Will you be duelling tonight Mr Potter?" He asked with a questioning tilt to his head, a habit he'd had since he was a child.
Duelling was a tradition during Litha. The winner of the duels were awarded time with himself to learn whichever magic they desired. Usually this was dark magic, necromancy or the darkest of curses.
After the duels he would light the bonfire and the party goers would dance and sing around it before they all took part in a great feast.
"I will. Though I doubt I'll get through the first round." Potter's mouth twisted into a self deprecating smile.
"I shall be very disappointed if you don't win all your duels." He challenged and he wasn't lying. Voldemort wondered just how good the younger man was and what Potter would ask him to teach.
Bright green eyes widened. "I'll do my best." He said quietly.
"Do. I shall be watching but don't be surprised if you don't see me."
The way the young man looked at him, as if he had never been told to do his best before had him desperately wanting to see just what he was thinking. He wanted to look into the younger man's mind. However his occlumency shields were rather impressive and he would no doubt feel his intrusion. Another reason to make him doubt Potter's lacking power.
"Before we part. If you wish to have any recommendations on where to go on your travels or simply wish to ask me an academic question please don't hesitate to owl me. I will be quite happy to provide any help you require." He informed Potter. "Letters addressed to Gaunt will reach me."
Potter swallowed and nodded before turning away so he could only see his profile. He watched, fascinated, as he pulled on his masks. Masks that, Voldemort could admit to himself, he had taken an embarrassingly long time to realise the messy haired man was wearing. Potter gave him a small but respectful bow before returning to the ballroom.
Lord Voldemort let out a sigh and removed the glamour from his eyes. He had infiltrated the ball wearing his old and much improved face, though he couldn't restore his eyes. A small price to pay.
A few weeks ago he had finally completed and performed the ritual to absorb the majority of his Horcruxes.
Before he had started creating his soul containers he had realised that he would be splitting his soul in half with each one. Which, with him originally wanting to create seven of them, would mean he would be left with but a sliver of soul. At first it hadn't concerned him, but by his third he had realised his mind wasn't as sharp as it usually was and his magic not quite as powerful. With each new one he'd made he had gotten even more unstable.
Therefore he decided he would complete his goal of creating seven but then reabsorb all but the last one. Leaving a sliver of soul safe but returning him to his full faculties. It hadn't been easy, especially with his mind slipping, but he had managed it. Without having to resort to feeling something as ridiculous as remorse.
He cast a glamour to make him look like his old monstrous self and cast a very powerful invisibility charm over himself before making his way towards the front gates where two of his most loyal were waiting for him.
Tonight had been more successful and interesting than he had first thought it would be. He had been interested to find out what type of men the two prophesied children had grown to be and had decided to come as Marvolo Gaunt to question them.
It had become clear to him with the first minutes of conversation with Longbottom that the brown haired man was no threat to him. He was guileless and earnest. He certainly had power but it was focused towards his plants. It was a surprise, what with both his parents being very successful Aurors, but Longbottom's greatest ambition was to to settle down with his childhood love and create a business selling his plants.
Along with common British plants he planned to produce many plants that were currently imported and to undercut the international market. Voldemort was certain he would succeed and had even pointed him towards the Greengrass' who had a very invested interest into potions ingredient supply. He had come away from that conversation rather pleased. Longbottom was no, and never would be, a threat to him.
Potter however had been a very different story. He had watched the young man flit and dance around the ballroom with the ease and grace of any Pureblood. He had seemed to get on with everyone he spoke to and would often get trapped in long conversations before joining the dance floor again. Giving Voldemort no chance to corner him.
It had been during a break in dancing that he had seen Potter's mask slip. Only for a second and he wouldn't have seen it if he hadn't been watching him slow closely. Not long after that he had slipped out onto the balcony and Voldemort had taken his opportunity.
The following conversation had been surprising. Learning that Potter smoked being only the start to the surprises. His wandless magic, his anger and bitterness, the fact that he could feel magic and his well guarded mind were just glimpses of his potential. Knowing the man wanted to leave Britain had assured him that he wouldn't be a threat.
Though letting him follow his own path may one day make him become a one. He contemplated forbidding him to leave but decided against it. No. That would just make Potter resent him.
The end of the conversation had been the most surprising. In his youth he had been used to people flirting and throwing themselves at him. He hadn't expected Potter to flirt and tease him. He hadn't expected it to work.
He had almost lost control of himself, with his hand around Potter's throat, bright green eyes staring at him full of lust and instead of backing away from his warning, the young man had leant into him. Eager and desperate. He was glad that they had been interrupted or he would have had Potter in a very compromising position. If they had been caught it would have caused a scandal neither of them needed.
He reached the front gates of the manor where Bellatrix and Rodolphus Lestrange were waiting for him. He threw off the invisibility charm and both of them bowed deeply to him. Neither of them mentioned his sudden arrival or the fact that he had clearly come from the manor and not the road.
As they made their way silently tip the path he pulled in his magic. He considered leaving it free just to see Potter's reaction when he realised he'd almost kissed the Dark Lord but decided against it. He would keep each identity secret, guessing Potter would be more open with Gaunt.