(no subject)
Someday, I shall understand the meaning of the term "drabble." :)
For luciademedici:
The Flash of a Serpent's Tongue
Harry remembers harsh lessons and long hours, but he let his mind remain open, tearing down excruciatingly carefully built walls to leave himself vulnerable.
It is no surprise when Voldemort comes creeping into his mind (open and ready) and finds him unguarded.
He keeps the memory of destroyed Horcruxes underneath the shattered rubble of his mental walls, and Voldemort does not seem to realize that Harry wants to be caught.
He is taken to a ivy-coated cottage and waits for his opportunity.
*
Harry is young, he is seventeen years old and thinks he has already been in love.
When Voldemort’s hand, cold and pale, slides up his arm, he does not think of it as a caress. He thinks it is an act of war, a gauntlet being tossed. He shudders (revulsion, he thinks) and says with more conviction than he feels, “You will never have me.”
He does not realize what he has said, in his mindset of death and war and winning and losing. He does not realize that possession and power and control are achieved through other means as well.
Harry thinks of those feelings only in the context of pretty young girls and kisses in the common room and midnight fantasies.
He does not recognize the hunger in his enemy’s eyes
*
Harry looks at the window, and vines are all he sees, entwining his prison, tightening like a boa’s embrace.
*
“What separates us, Harry?” Voldemort asked, staring at him through slitted eyes that glowed red like sunset. “Tell me.”
Harry obeyed like the eager student he had never been. “You are wrong. Killing people, prejudice against Muggles and Muggleborns. . . Why can’t you see that’s wrong?”
“How do you feel about your relatives, Harry Potter?” Voldemort asked. A tendril of his mind touched Harry’s, brought images of red screaming faces and hatred. “What would they do if they were given the opportunity?”
“But there are good people out there!” Harry argued. “You can’t judge everyone by them.”
A barrage of images, showing Harry’s memories of childhood bullies and angry dictators and fields gone red in the aftermath of genocide, accompanied with the whisper, “Is this what you want to save?”
Harry desperately tried to think of something good about the Muggle world, something beautiful and wonderful that could not be perverted or destroyed by Voldemort’s twist of the knife, but he could think of nothing. “There is good in the world,” he said quietly. “Not everything is about death and murder and hatred.”
Skeletal fingers on his leg, his thigh and creeping upwards. “Are you so sure?”
*
Voldemort’s words are as corrupted as his smile.
*
“What do you think will become of you if by some miracle you defeat me?” Voldemort asked.
Harry does not want to think of this, refuses to think beyond the beautiful image of Voldemort lying dead on the cold stone floor. “I will get to live my life,” he replies.
Voldemort laughs. “You will become me.” He slid his fingers into Harry’s unruly hair, twisting and combing his way through snarls and playful whirls.
Harry makes a move to shove Voldemort’s hand aside, but instead fingers grip harder, sending tiny spikes of pain through Harry’s scalp.
“I had hair like this once,” Voldemort says in that tone that Harry recognizes as detached, not nostalgic. “Neater, of course, less unruly. But otherwise the same.”
Harry does not often see Tom Riddle in Voldemort’s malformed face, but for a second it is as though the boy this creature had once been was juxtaposed over what he had become. “We are the same, Harry Potter. You would do well to remember that. You are no better than me.”
Harry opens his mouth to argue, to protest that he is good, he does what is right, but Voldemort is crashing down on him like a wave and Harry can no more stop him than he can stop the ocean.
Voldemort’s kiss tastes of death and betrayal and blood.
Harry’s kiss merely tastes like tears.
*
Harry is awkward and scared and disgusted the next time he sees Voldemort. The shock still hadn’t faded when Voldemort had swept out of the room after kissing Harry (the shock still hasn’t faded) but now Harry wants to know why.
“Because you’re a beautiful child,” Voldemort says with something like a chuckle. “Because you are like me.”
“You don’t understand love,” Harry says with conviction. This much he knows, this much he is certain of. “So don’t... just don’t.”
A hiss slithers through Harry’s heart and mind, a slither that is slow and sensuous and wrong. “Who said anything about love?”
*
Harry is surrounded by a giant coiled serpent, whose eyes meet his no matter which way he turns. Trapped, he knows, but he will never stop fighting.
*
Voldemort takes him from behind, muscling him into the position he wants no matter how Harry struggles. “I am your master,” he hisses. “I am your lord.”
“Never,” Harry replies through gritted teeth.
“We are the same, you and I.” The flash of a serpent’s tongue, flicking against his neck. “How can you kill your reflection?”
*
Harry stands over the twisted, inhuman corpse and thinks, Victory.
But he cannot help but think of insidious words.
They don’t care about you.
They left you here to die.
They make you who they want you to be.
*
This was their Eden, Harry thinks, staring at the vines twisting serpent-like around the cottage, around the place he was captive and found himself captivated.
He remembers grunts of pain and screams of pleasure.
He remembers stabbing viciously into the skull of a giant snake, the last Horcrux, knowing in that moment he was nearing salvation.
He remembers the sensuous release of power as he shouted the words (Avada Kedavra!) and watched the dream of the wizarding world come true.
A headline: YOU-KNOW-WHO SLAIN BY HARRY POTTER: THE WORLD REJOICES.
An echoing whisper: “You are no better than me”
*
It’s no big thing, they assured him as they kept him under lock and key (a tighter reign than Voldemort the corpse). Just to keep you safe.
Harry remembers years of misery and neglect at the Dursleys to keep the protection of a mother’s love.
“See, that’s not so bad, now is it?” A fluff of a pillow and the sharp click of the locked door. The Death Eaters, the ones who remain, might come. They must keep the boy savior safe.
Harry remembers blood and flesh and bone mixing together under moonlight in a graveyard, another form of protection.
“We’re just keeping you safe,” assures the Mediwitch, as if repeating it made it true. (Repetition always makes things true, Harry thinks, that’s what they teach you in school.)
Voldemort’s voice, assuring him that they were the same.
Harry jerks away, ignoring the look on their faces as he rushes out of the room, remembering cold kisses and spidery fingers trailing up his spine, weaving webs of need and hate.
We are the same.
*
You are our hero, the masses say. Adoring eyes and empty minds and ever-listening ears. Harry is overwhelmed when he saw his face plastered on posters and book covers and near daily on the front page of the newspaper.
Reporters ask him, “What are you going to do now? What should we do now?”
Everyone is nervous, afraid it (no one refers to it by name) will happen again.
“Harry Potter saved us,” they say. It is understood that no other you-know-whos will gain power as long as Harry Potter is there.
Harry watches them round up purebloods (How can possible Death Eaters be trusted?) and does not say a word. (So many dead, what are a few more if it keeps everyone safe?)
No one worries that Harry Potter will become like You-Know-Who.
We are the same.
For luciademedici:
The Flash of a Serpent's Tongue
Harry remembers harsh lessons and long hours, but he let his mind remain open, tearing down excruciatingly carefully built walls to leave himself vulnerable.
It is no surprise when Voldemort comes creeping into his mind (open and ready) and finds him unguarded.
He keeps the memory of destroyed Horcruxes underneath the shattered rubble of his mental walls, and Voldemort does not seem to realize that Harry wants to be caught.
He is taken to a ivy-coated cottage and waits for his opportunity.
*
Harry is young, he is seventeen years old and thinks he has already been in love.
When Voldemort’s hand, cold and pale, slides up his arm, he does not think of it as a caress. He thinks it is an act of war, a gauntlet being tossed. He shudders (revulsion, he thinks) and says with more conviction than he feels, “You will never have me.”
He does not realize what he has said, in his mindset of death and war and winning and losing. He does not realize that possession and power and control are achieved through other means as well.
Harry thinks of those feelings only in the context of pretty young girls and kisses in the common room and midnight fantasies.
He does not recognize the hunger in his enemy’s eyes
*
Harry looks at the window, and vines are all he sees, entwining his prison, tightening like a boa’s embrace.
*
“What separates us, Harry?” Voldemort asked, staring at him through slitted eyes that glowed red like sunset. “Tell me.”
Harry obeyed like the eager student he had never been. “You are wrong. Killing people, prejudice against Muggles and Muggleborns. . . Why can’t you see that’s wrong?”
“How do you feel about your relatives, Harry Potter?” Voldemort asked. A tendril of his mind touched Harry’s, brought images of red screaming faces and hatred. “What would they do if they were given the opportunity?”
“But there are good people out there!” Harry argued. “You can’t judge everyone by them.”
A barrage of images, showing Harry’s memories of childhood bullies and angry dictators and fields gone red in the aftermath of genocide, accompanied with the whisper, “Is this what you want to save?”
Harry desperately tried to think of something good about the Muggle world, something beautiful and wonderful that could not be perverted or destroyed by Voldemort’s twist of the knife, but he could think of nothing. “There is good in the world,” he said quietly. “Not everything is about death and murder and hatred.”
Skeletal fingers on his leg, his thigh and creeping upwards. “Are you so sure?”
*
Voldemort’s words are as corrupted as his smile.
*
“What do you think will become of you if by some miracle you defeat me?” Voldemort asked.
Harry does not want to think of this, refuses to think beyond the beautiful image of Voldemort lying dead on the cold stone floor. “I will get to live my life,” he replies.
Voldemort laughs. “You will become me.” He slid his fingers into Harry’s unruly hair, twisting and combing his way through snarls and playful whirls.
Harry makes a move to shove Voldemort’s hand aside, but instead fingers grip harder, sending tiny spikes of pain through Harry’s scalp.
“I had hair like this once,” Voldemort says in that tone that Harry recognizes as detached, not nostalgic. “Neater, of course, less unruly. But otherwise the same.”
Harry does not often see Tom Riddle in Voldemort’s malformed face, but for a second it is as though the boy this creature had once been was juxtaposed over what he had become. “We are the same, Harry Potter. You would do well to remember that. You are no better than me.”
Harry opens his mouth to argue, to protest that he is good, he does what is right, but Voldemort is crashing down on him like a wave and Harry can no more stop him than he can stop the ocean.
Voldemort’s kiss tastes of death and betrayal and blood.
Harry’s kiss merely tastes like tears.
*
Harry is awkward and scared and disgusted the next time he sees Voldemort. The shock still hadn’t faded when Voldemort had swept out of the room after kissing Harry (the shock still hasn’t faded) but now Harry wants to know why.
“Because you’re a beautiful child,” Voldemort says with something like a chuckle. “Because you are like me.”
“You don’t understand love,” Harry says with conviction. This much he knows, this much he is certain of. “So don’t... just don’t.”
A hiss slithers through Harry’s heart and mind, a slither that is slow and sensuous and wrong. “Who said anything about love?”
*
Harry is surrounded by a giant coiled serpent, whose eyes meet his no matter which way he turns. Trapped, he knows, but he will never stop fighting.
*
Voldemort takes him from behind, muscling him into the position he wants no matter how Harry struggles. “I am your master,” he hisses. “I am your lord.”
“Never,” Harry replies through gritted teeth.
“We are the same, you and I.” The flash of a serpent’s tongue, flicking against his neck. “How can you kill your reflection?”
*
Harry stands over the twisted, inhuman corpse and thinks, Victory.
But he cannot help but think of insidious words.
They don’t care about you.
They left you here to die.
They make you who they want you to be.
*
This was their Eden, Harry thinks, staring at the vines twisting serpent-like around the cottage, around the place he was captive and found himself captivated.
He remembers grunts of pain and screams of pleasure.
He remembers stabbing viciously into the skull of a giant snake, the last Horcrux, knowing in that moment he was nearing salvation.
He remembers the sensuous release of power as he shouted the words (Avada Kedavra!) and watched the dream of the wizarding world come true.
A headline: YOU-KNOW-WHO SLAIN BY HARRY POTTER: THE WORLD REJOICES.
An echoing whisper: “You are no better than me”
*
It’s no big thing, they assured him as they kept him under lock and key (a tighter reign than Voldemort the corpse). Just to keep you safe.
Harry remembers years of misery and neglect at the Dursleys to keep the protection of a mother’s love.
“See, that’s not so bad, now is it?” A fluff of a pillow and the sharp click of the locked door. The Death Eaters, the ones who remain, might come. They must keep the boy savior safe.
Harry remembers blood and flesh and bone mixing together under moonlight in a graveyard, another form of protection.
“We’re just keeping you safe,” assures the Mediwitch, as if repeating it made it true. (Repetition always makes things true, Harry thinks, that’s what they teach you in school.)
Voldemort’s voice, assuring him that they were the same.
Harry jerks away, ignoring the look on their faces as he rushes out of the room, remembering cold kisses and spidery fingers trailing up his spine, weaving webs of need and hate.
We are the same.
*
You are our hero, the masses say. Adoring eyes and empty minds and ever-listening ears. Harry is overwhelmed when he saw his face plastered on posters and book covers and near daily on the front page of the newspaper.
Reporters ask him, “What are you going to do now? What should we do now?”
Everyone is nervous, afraid it (no one refers to it by name) will happen again.
“Harry Potter saved us,” they say. It is understood that no other you-know-whos will gain power as long as Harry Potter is there.
Harry watches them round up purebloods (How can possible Death Eaters be trusted?) and does not say a word. (So many dead, what are a few more if it keeps everyone safe?)
No one worries that Harry Potter will become like You-Know-Who.
We are the same.