The Dark Lord Gives, and Takes Away

(August 30, 2008) Note: takes place between Chapters 21/22 ('War and Roses' and 'Heart of Gold').

A/N: I'm halfway through the next proper chapter, Chapter 23: The Eighth Variation. Rest assured that it will be completed soon, gentle readers. In the meantime, here is something from last summer that is less mind-screwy than the other things my mind threw out. Lack of school does that to me, you know.

Deleted Scene 8: Dissolution

MIRRORS

"Two sketching hands, each one the other draws: the fantasies thou've fashioned fashion thee."—Alan Moore, The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen: Black Dossier

BEHIND HIS EYES

He paced, his feet tracing one long path without conscious thought. He began not to notice the many closed doors flashing past him; gradually, he was walking one dark hall without start or end, lost in his own thoughts. These circled around in his mind: doubting, questioning, reasoning with the unknowable.

What does he think? Will he accept Nagini and me? No, he hates me—has every reason to hate me. This new-old part of my life—what does he think of me? It must sound like a melodramatic plot twist from a romance novel. It's not the truth. Nothing is the truth; there is no truth save what we deem to be true. Nothing. That's what I am: nothing. What does he think of me?

The questions ceased, for there was nothing—

WHAT AM I?

He had no body. Who am I?

Yourself, Lord Voldemort, born Tom Marvolo Riddle. It was a boy, tall and handsome, dressed in long black and silver garments—robes?

Are you someone?

The boy laughed. No, of course not.

What are you, then? He moved closer to the boy and the boy moved closer to him. Hungrily, he took in everything about the other: the fine hairs above his upper lip, the angle of an eyebrow that somehow conveyed wit and scorn, each dark fold of his robes.

Without mirrors, you would not have a self.

He moved closer still, leaning his head in—he had a head?—and noticed that the boy-thing copied his movement. Their foreheads almost touched. Then you are—me?

The boy smirked, his upper lip curling, his smoothly curving nostrils flaring slightly. Careful now, Voldemort. I might think you desire me.

He jerked back; the boy did the same, though his expression did not change. I have no love for you. If anything, I feel shame. Did he? What was the meaning of that word?

The dark eyes of his former self were hard. Of course you're not in love with me. That concept is something only a watered-down, sentimental, weak specimen like you could endorse. If anything, shame should be found here. It tapped its own chest. But you are quite wrong on one count: you do desire this body. Isn't your same at your former personality merely a projection of your disgust at your current body? How could you not desire this one? It was now, without any transition or explanation, completely naked.

Maybe I have someone else to desire. What was this tone in his speech? It was like a purple-brown streak, visceral yet sharp, superimposed over the perfect zigzag line that was pure text. Was it present in his reflection?

The thing with a reverse-echo of his face—the original rather than the wasted parody—folded its arms, now clothed again, and laughed. Harry? Do you mean that boy? You're hiding the truth from yourself.

There is no truth. There is no deception.

Call it what you will. Do you wish to know your own perception of Harry? You're seeing yourself—or, perhaps more accurately, something of this self—in him. It is Tom that you desire so badly. Closer than a twin; closer than a lover. Can't you see?

Was this a body? It was heavy—there was something strange about it, a rhythm where before there had been nothing. Was this a pulse? Was this anger? What is there to see?

It smiled. Much more than mere memory, magic-augmented, Marvolo the student. Isn't it obvious? — I'm a Horcrux.

He would have started back, only the quietly smiling boy that stood opposite him did not. So he remained, like his reflection, upright. NO! No! No!

And Tom kept smiling, though his eyes were blazing, and said quietly—Yes.

Then is Harry—?

Your little doll? I'm afraid not.

This voice came from behind him. But we are.

He turned, and—horror!—there were two more selves. The first self, the one that was leaner and paler than Tom, spoke: We are unique. Yet we share certain similarities.

The second one, looking almost younger in its hairlessness, its pearly skin, its eyes completely red: That is true—should you choose to accept it.

I will ask again. He did not use the word "you"—for how did one address a fragment of a soul? Is Harry a Horcrux?

The second Horcrux—was that how he looked now? His voice was a bit higher than that, clearer too—said gravely: No. Quelling an interruption from Tom, it went on thus: Unlike these others, I recognize Horcruxes that are also living beings. Nagini—and here the Horcrux's eyes became flat and took on the redness of blood—is a vessel. Harry, of whom we are not aware yet, is not.

Then if you don't remember him—so to speak—how do you—? Yes, his body was gaunter than the second soul-fragment, and his hands were slightly longer—and had fine lines on the face. —Or perhaps in this construct he would conveniently ignore the wrinkles.

All three units spoke as one, their voices melding into a chord, and yet each element could be discerned with careful listening. We are both of you, as you might expect, and in you. Not only because the perception makes up the reality … it is something, we think, truer than that. They were now almost indistinguishable, their visual forms blending as well.

But I desire Harry because he is different from myself. Not because he is similar.

Then it is true.

That was an argument he could not carry on. And yet—how could he know the truth? Why are—were—there three of you?

Our brethren have no mouths, for cold metal and bone cannot sing. We—they—are far too distant. A higher voice within the mass seemed to say: Dolt! Magic diminishes across distances and through time. All the voices resumed: Save perhaps one; but she is farther than you … we … had hoped.

What do you mean? He moved toward the mirror, and they had no choice but to step closer as well.

It is a strange secret world behind your eyes, Voldemort. But then, so is the one beyond them.

He blinked, seeing only two large red eyes—and then he was staring at a blank wall in Riddle House.

A last, fading echo: And is there really any difference between the two?

APATHY

"I see now! I am nothing more or less than myself."—Shinji Ikari, Neon Genesis Evangelion: Episode 26

DISSOLUTION

Voldemort lay in the bathtub, staring up at the stained ceiling. "What are my desires?" His thin voice echoed back to him a fraction of a second after he had spoken. He looked down at himself; and between the bony outcroppings of his knees was only dark water. "What am I?"

He froze, picking up the approaching footsteps that had been muffled by the constant stir and slap of water. Hurriedly, he leaned out and drew the shower curtain fully across the length of the tub. Sinking into the water, he heard the door open, a somewhat urgent tread, and a zipper being pulled down. He remained absolutely still, hunched over, as he heard the sounds of a bladder being emptied. His skin tingled in something that might be described as embarrassment. The best way to ignore it was to go inside, deeper and deeper...

MIND

To his relief, Harry finished (doing his business -offscreen). The rustling of cloth reached Voldemort's ears. The tap squeaked (more running water). Before Harry could leave, Voldemort took a fortifying breath and pulled the curtain open a notch, meeting the eyes of the startled teen.

"Would... would you help soap my back?" he asked, his eyes flickering, searching for a change in Harry's demeanor. They found and locked onto a slight curling at the edges of Harry's lips.

"Sure," Harry said, his voice low and slightly hoarse. Warmth licked up from his abdomen, filling him. He hastily turned to face the damp tiles of the wall, but could still feel the slight vibrations of Harry's steps approaching. Water sloshed as he sat up, presenting his back to Harry.

The boy's first touch all but extinguished Voldemort's desire. He flexed his shoulder blades back, exaggeratedly wrapping himself in his arms. "The soap is... cold," he said. To his shame his own voice sounded nasal and far higher to his ears (childish). "Would you mind using your hands?" On an impulse, he looked over his shoulder and attempted a self-deprecating smile. "Or does my skin so repulse you? I thought you were eager..."

His heart almost stopped as his bare skin on his neck registered Harry's puff of breath. "It's not slimy or scaly," the teenager said. For once Voldemort wondered if body hair wasn't worth feeling the sensuous currents in everyday movements. "Your... your skin is smooth. Like a baby's."

AWAKENING

"Mmm." He sighed, overloading on pleasure as Harry's warm, large hands worked soap lather onto his back. No cloth, no silken wind could compare. Heat invaded his skin. "Yes," he said, shivering. "Oh, yes!" His breath caught in his throat; was he choking? His other senses intensified. Every crack and rust spot in the tile in front of his eyes was a masterpiece in the miniature; their breaths formed a continuous roaring in his ears. Mounting to a peak of sensation, he rose, and the waters, now red and thickly visceral like the shroud from a womb, rose with him. His skin felt raw with the air; turning to face Harry, he pressed his mouth to the boy's while shucking him of his coverings.

CONFRONTATION

He sighed again, letting his head nod to his chest as Harry moved to his shoulders. Is this what it's like to be un—unmanned? he thought. He stirred, neck stiffening, as a phrase replayed itself in his mind. Like a baby's. Did he want to be that? Helpless, docile, no matter how pleasant things were?

"Are you alright with this?" asked Voldemort of Harry, whose hands had stopped their movements. "If you aren't -"

"Of course I am," came Harry's voice, deep and soothing. "Why are you worried?" A kiss was pressed to the base of Voldemort's neck.

Voldemort turned to look at him. "How can you feel desire for me? Am I really worth this?"

Harry stood and stepped back, his hands in his pockets. "Your body doesn't matter to me." Voldemort wondered what the teen's leg would feel like, through the rough jeans; what Harry's flat stomach felt like to the face, so close to eagerly devouring the heat through thin fabric and skin.

"It should!" Voldemort's shout rang off three walls. "You can't just ignore these things or put them aside. They need to be dealt with. I am old enough to be your grandfather: of course I don't have the mind of a seventeen-year-old. I have ruined my body, becoming almost a living corpse. How can you possibly want me?"

Harry blinked and draped himself over Voldemort's skeletal back. "Because I can see your bones through the skin, and know that you are beautiful."

Harry blinked and draped himself over Voldemort's back. "Because I can see the soul—your essence—through mere flesh, and I know that you are human."

"Am I?" he whispered. "Am I truly a man? Or something less than man?"

"You are," Harry crooned, into his ear.

"Am I?" the former Dark Lord whispered.

"You are," Harry crooned.

"Am I?" the tile whispered back. "Am I? Am I? What am I?"

Voldemort's face tightened. "But you haven't seen," he said. "If you could really see me, you would hate me."

"Why would I?" Harry asked in a low voice.

"Would I?" Harry asked. "Would I?"

"Yes," Voldemort said, and shrieked, "Yes, you would -" and, faced with a wild impulse to turn around and bare himself fully, did just that. Cold water ran down his legs as he stood, his legs spread, skin contracting upon contact with the air. His stomach felt shrunken from cold. "You would," Voldemort said, laughing wildly, crossing arms over chest, "you would!" But Harry's horrified eyes were not toward his nakedness but to his face.

MATTER

To his relief, Harry finished. The rustling of cloth reached Voldemort's ears. The tap squeaked. More running water, and then the tap squeaked again as the flow of water stopped. Voldemort heard the door open, and Harry's footsteps fading. Relaxing his tense muscles, he scooped up water—the exact temperature of his skin—and bathed his face. "I wish I could just dissolve," he murmured, water running down his neck. He lay back and waited.