M.P.O.: Hello all, and a Happy Holidays, since I likely won't have anything else updated before the next two months are done. *sigh* Writer's Block has hit me hard, for everything. Just got this little brainstorm a few hours ago, wrote it out, and decided to post SOMETHING, so you guys would know that I'm not dead yet. xD Anywho, go ahead and enjoy the fic, I hope you like it.
The knife gleamed under the soft glow of florescent lights, a glint of silver covered in red. The liquid was sticky, thick and viscous like chilled tomato soup, but it felt warm under his touch. Specks of it decorated the walls in a mockery of the fine painting hanging nearby, the simple white and red a stark contrast to the bright swirling colors of an Impressionist piece. Eyes the same color as the crimson stains turned, shifting about and examining the masterpiece laid out in front of them.
There were three, so beautiful in his capable hands, where once they had been ugly, a stain upon the world, just as the red was a stain upon the walls. But- he mused, sliding the knife casually down an expanse of unmarked skin- it wasn't complete... not yet. Carefully, he slit open Petunia's dress, using a spell to ravage her womanhood as only the foulest of men would do. Only once he had done this, did he smile and stand back to examine his work.
Mrs. Dursley had been simple, easily overpowered with her slim figure and high neck. All he had to do was cut the tendons in her knees and watch her crumple, a little bit of magic silencing her screams. She had been laid out carefully, after the tendons in her wrists and elbows had been cut as well, and left to watch as he finished his work.
Mr. Dursley had been next, and was immensely more challenging. After a moment's consideration, he had found one of the bigger kitchen knives. Another tiny burst of magic ensured that he wouldn't cut himself on the blade, and - with a gleeful smirk- he had plunged said utensil between the 3rd and 4th rib on the right side, puncturing the man's lung and silencing him without the need for magic. Vernon had been left to scramble on the floor, making delightful sounds of wheezing and breathless gasps of pain while He went to find the child.
Dudley was the easiest by far. He had lured the boy into the kitchen with a simple promise of food and, while his dear mother was watching, snapped his neck in one swift, precise movement. The 300 pound whale went down with nary a sound, his head flopping at an awkward angle. Petunia, mouth open in a scream of unadulterated hatred and horror, writhed on the floor, unable to even lift her arms to save her precious Dudders. Humming softly in appreciation of his handywork, he had turned again to Vernon.
"Tsk tsk, Vernon. It doesn't become you to sleep on the job, now does it?" He purred, footsteps eerily silent on the usually creaky hardwood. He woke the man with the barest twitch of his fingers, smiling congenially as beady blue eyes fluttered open, only to close again with a soft whine of pain.
"Ah ah." He frowned, pointing at the man, appearing almost bored with the action. "I said no sleeping. Crucio."
It was lovely, hearing the struggled breaths of a man who could not scream, arms and legs flailing about on the floor like a landed fish. Tilting his head back, he closed his eyes, basking in the warm rush, the tingle of Dark Magic that made his head spin and his blood spark with the lust for more. Ending the curse with another flick of his fingers, he relished in the smell of blood and fear that permeated the room. It revitalized him, filled him with a strength he had not known in nine years, and gave him the power to do what he wished. Teeth bared in a feral grin, he knelt, raising the carving knife he had plucked from the table, watching the light play off of the blade.
"I know that Harry can carve a Turkey as well as any man... shall we see if I have inherited that talent?"
His masterpiece was finished, his play over, at least for now. Carefully, he removed all traces of himself, vanishing the knives, and removing the evidence of blood from his clothing and skin. Then, humming cheerfully, he left them there, stepping carefully and retreating into the cupboard, where he settled on a cot, locking himself in with a simple spell. Tasks complete, he laid back, drifting into his mind and closing his eyes, content.
Flames danced in the reflection of a mirror, flickering tongues of red and orange that teased at the edges of his sight. Marble columns stood like guardian statues at even intervals, twenty one in all, a magical number. The Mirror stood in a depression, set into the floor with a flight of stairs surrounding it on all sides, also made of the same gray-white stone. Seven steps, more magic, more power, all to protect this one small trinket.
He lifted his hand to examine it, crimson eyes sparkling in the light of the fire, glittering with a dark mirth. The prize was small, a stone no bigger than his hand, with silver veins on an opaque red face. The Philosopher's Stone. A work of immense magical and alchemical skill that took years to produce, and so rare that only one had been made. And it was sitting in his hand. He restrained the urge to laugh, instead tucking the precious gem into his pocket and turning to face his companion. Or would acquaintance be a better word?
The man was tall, much taller than he, with a bald head and wide, vacant eyes. The most interesting thing was the back of his head, upon which sat a face, one with snakelike slits and eyes as brilliant a red as his own. He hissed in displeasure, lifting his lip in a sneer worthy og Snape himself.
"What have you done to yourself, Voldemort? Reduced to piggy-backing on such weak wizards?" He taunted, pacing idly and watching the spirit. "A pity really, you were so strong once, so charismatic, so much more. Now? You are nothing. A worm, a sliver of soul that has no place or meaning in this life."
"How dare you sp-" The worm started, narrowing it's eyes to slits and turning the host to see him better, the lifeless limbs jerking with the awkward movement.
"How dare I what, Tom? Speak the truth? Say what you wish not to hear? Come now old man, even you must know that you are weak." He smirked, pausing in his pacing to stare at the parasitic version of the once great Dark Lord.
"You little brat! Crucio!" Red light jumped across the space between them, hitting him square in the chest. His eyes went wide and, laughing, he flew back, slamming into a pillar with all the force of a Giant's fist. Stone crumbled, bones broke, he could even feel the blood running down his face. Still he laughed, eyes closed near to slits and head thrown back against the pillar. Voldemort stared, eyes wide in disbelief.
"Your magic-" He panted, grinning madly, "It reaks of death and blood, the souls of a thousand wizards, muggles, halfbood and pureblood alike. So twisted, dark, delicious..." He was all but purring now, leaning his head to one side and leering at the other wizard. Voldemort looked both interested and horrified, going so far as to step one foot back, keeping his wide scarlet eyes glued to His broken form.
"What... What are you? You are not-"
/I am not, no. But what I am remains to be seen, doesn't it?/ He hissed, the serpent tongue slipping easily from between his lips. Voldemort snarled, stepping forwards, only to hiss, freezing and snapping his head to the right.
Voices; three of them, panicked and hurried. He chuckled, a small trickle of blood slipping over cracked lips, staining his mouth red.
"You'd better run, sounds like Dumbledore's coming to save the day. Wouldn't want to get killed again, now would you, Tom?" He bit out, feeling himself slip back, weakening slowly as the injuries of his body began to wear on his concentraition. Voldemort narrowed his eyes and stared a moment longer before wrenching himself free of his host with a startling crack, black mist rising from the fallen body and gathering above it. The spirit hovered a moment, regaining it's bearings, before shooting upwards, impacting with the ceiling and ghosting through it with a soft whisper of wind and magic.
"See you soon, Tom." He murmured, closing his eyes as the brightly robed Dumbledore swept into the room. Releasing himself, he fell backwards, back into the dark abyss that was his mind, to gather himself and plan.
M.P.O.: It was supposed to be a oneshot covering all seven years, but I decided to do short little chapters instead. There will only be 7 or 8 in total, and there isn't very much detail or actual plot behind this. It's just something I came up with that was fun to write. Who knows, I may go back and re-write it into an actual story later on. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it! Again, I'm not dead, and all of my other fics are on Hold until I can come up with something to do with them. Malleus is fine, I'm just stuck on a little part that I need to figure out before I can finish writing the next chapter. RA:MKNB is on hold until i can get a copy of the first book (again ), and outlines are being devised for it in the meantime. The others are in the process of being re-written and will not be updated until I'm satisfied that they're how I want them.
Next chapter will be posted either on Friday, or sooner, depending upon how many people I have screaming at me to get the next one up. Ta!