Disclaimer: JK Rowling is a horrid selfish woman. But she created these characters, even if she wont share. so i suppose her genius can make up for it.
The following in an edited excerpt from Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, by JK Rowling.
"Why did you have to make it so difficult?"
Dumbledore's smile was tremulous.
"I am afraid I counted on Miss Granger to slow you up, Harry. I was afraid that your hot head might dominate your good heart. I was scared that, if presented outright with the facts about those tempting objects, you might seize the Hallows as I did, at the wrong time, for the wrong reasons. If you laid hands on them, I wanted you to possess them safely. You are the true master of death, because the true master does not seek to run away from Death. He accepts that he must die, and understands that there are far, far worse things in the living world than dying."
"And Voldemort never knew about the Hallows?"
"I do not think so, because he did not recognize the Resurrection Stone he turned into a Horcrux. But even if he had known about them, Harry. I doubt that he would have been interested in any except the first. He would not think that he needed the Cloak, and as for the stone, whom would he want to bring back from the dead? He fears the dead. He does not love."
"But you expected him to go after the wand?"
"I have been sure that he would try, ever since your wand beat Voldemort's in the graveyard of Little Hangleton. At first, he was afraid that you had conquered him by superior skill. Once he had kidnapped Ollivander, however, he discovered the existence of the twin cores. He thought that explained everything. Yet the borrowed wand did no better against yours! So Voldemort, instead of asking himself what quality it was in you that had made your wand so strong, what gift you possessed that he did not, naturally set out to find the one wand that, they said, would beat any other. For him, the Elder Wand has become an obsession to rival his obsession with you. He believes that the Elder Wand removes his last weakness and makes him truly invincible. Poor Severus..."
"If you planned your death with Snape, you meant him to end up with the Elder Wand, didn't you?"
"I admit that was my intention," said Dumbledore, "but it did not work as I intended, did it?"
"No," said Harry. "That bit didn't work out."
The creature behind them jerked and moaned, and Harry and Dumbledore sate without talking for the longest time yet. The realization of what would happen next settled gradually over Harry in the long minutes, like softly falling snow.
"I've got to go back, haven't I?"
"That is up to you."
"I've got a choice?"
"Oh yes," Dumbledore smiled at him. "We are in King's Cross you say? I think that if you decided not to go back, you would be able to... let's say... board a train."
"And where would it take me?"
"On," said Dumbledore simply.
"Voldemort's got the Elder Wand."
"True. Voldemort has the Elder Wand."
"But you want me to go back?"
"I think," said Dumbledore, "that if you choose to return, there is a chance that he may be finished for good. I cannot promise it. But I know this, Harry, that you have less to fear from returning here than he does."
Harry glanced again at the raw looking thing that trembled and choked in the shadow beneath the distant chair.
"Do not pity the dead, Harry. Pity the living, and above all, those who live without love. Love, and the trust that accompanies it, can ensure that fewer souls are maimed, fewer families are torn apart. Fewer people embittered by their childhood" For a moment, a great sadness seemed to take over Dumbledore's normally cheerful disposition, and Harry could see the remorse in his eyes, which now showed his true, exhausted age. "Perhaps that is the twisted moral of it all."
Harry nodded and sighed; understanding, but more concerned with his still, unfinished task.. Leaving this place would not be nearly as hard as walking into the forest had been, but it was warm and light and peaceful here, and he knew that he was heading back to pain and the fear of more loss. He stood up, and Dumbledore did the same, and they looked for a long moment into each other's faces.
"Tell me one last thing," said Harry, "Is this real? Or has this been happening inside my head?"
Dumbledore beamed at him, and his voice sounded loud and strong in Harry's ears even though the bright mist was descending again, obscuring his figure.
"Of course it is happening inside your head, Harry, but why on earth should that mean it is not real?"
"Reason with yourself when you have lost your reason."
― Andrew Solomon
The first thought to pass through "His" mind as he gradually waxed back into consciousness, was that every nerve in his body felt like meat in a butchers shop. It wasn't necessarily painful, the discomfort of the hypothetical pins seemed stuck into every pore of his skin. But truly, his head ached madly, as if a vice were pressing it from all angles.
With a low groan, he attempted to move his obnoxiously heavy arms, which refused to budge more than a few centemeters before, they too, felt very sore, and he begrudgingly relaxed them once more, hearing the rustling of leaves as they slid back.
By the heavens he was exhausted. Surely after sleeping so soundly he would feel rejuvenated! So, why did he feel so fatigued? Even his eardrums seemed to pound with the echoing of muddled voices around him, and it was enough incentive to summon up a great deal of willpower in order to reach up and cover his ears with a strained whine of irritation.
"Too loud!" there was a simultaneous gasp around him and then the horrid noise grew louder. "Please! Please, it hurts to much…" But when the blood pounding in his ears had finally began to simmer down a great bang nearly tore open his skull with its volume.
Had his veins not already lost the unpleasant tingling, he surely would not have felt the effects of whatever had overcome him, as he was suddenly a-buzz with internal sirens of warning. It was hardly painful, less than uncomfortable, even. Simply…there, and he felt himself pushing up off the ground, his strength renewed, dug his palms into the dirt and assumed a sitting position with very little struggle.
Though it seemed that every time he tried to form a thought, or ask himself what was happening, and where he was; he somehow managed to fixate enough mental focus to realize that he was surrounded by several dark shapes; and that he was in severe need of optical assistance.
"My lord," He turned his head towards the very distinctly female voice. "why doesn't he scream?"
How stuned was he, to see a distinct shape, clear and defined, ripple from what appeared to be the face of the woman who had spoken. The midnight purple ring of smoke quickly reached him and dissipated into the air, giving off a feint feel of…madness.
"How is it possible?"
"He is immune?"
"My, lord! What does this mean?"
"Be silent, Bellatrix."
A general rabble of like comments accumulated in the air, filling his landscape of vision with multicolored rings, all of which bombarded him with the smell of character and emotion. How very strange…and how horribly irritating! Their loud and obnoxious discourse was quickly elevating his temper. He could not stand all of this disrespectful interruption when he was clearly trying to gather himself and his thoughts!
"But, My Lor-"
"SILENCE!" In an instant, all was quiet, heads turning to face the insolent child whom had dared give them an order. And in what seemed to be his breath, the man closest to him gave off a mist of something he could not quite identify. But he could not help the slight shiver that ran through him. It was very pleasant. Undoubtedly intoxicating.
"You dare speak to me in that tone, child?" Once more, he was engulfed in a cloud of euphoria, and was only just able to catch himself before his enjoyment made itself vocal. He needed to focus; yes. "Focus the mind and all is clear in the path ahead". Whom had said that? He had an awful feeling that they were quite close to him. But for the love of heaven he could not recall. Perhaps, if those around him would quiet down again he would actually manage to think! Their shouting and insulting comments were becoming intolerably loud.
"I shall speak to whomever in whichever way I please, especially when the majority of you can't gather the mental capacity to shut your bloody traps!" he growled impatiently. Were they incapable of such a thing? He was half sure that they were not, save the large figure who had spoken. He noticed the man was giving off breathy waves of silent curiosity…with just a hint of antagonism. Though why he enjoyed the "Scent" of this was beyond him. How intriguing.
"Why you little-" The boy felt the rage before it had even gathered to the focal point that had been raised in his direction by the mad woman. It appeared to be a stick of some kind, though with his vision so blurred, he could not possibly tell for sure.
Once again, a plethora of warnings went off in his mind like a great red flag, and upon reflexes he was not one-hundred percent aware of, he lifted his hand in defense (which he noted was a deep shiny black) against the jagged ray of electric blue fury.
His entire body shook with efforts to contain a shriek of pain, but in only a moment, it was gone; as if never having occurred at all.
Gasps erupted around him and finally, blessed silence. Though now, even that was not enough to escape the torrent of utter shock that overloaded his senses. He frowned. Clearly this was not normal, and for a moment he wondered if he had been drugged. Though, quickly he ruled it out. If he had been, all of his senses would have been either diminished, or heightened. Not a muddled combination of both. No, he was not hallucinating, nor could he be sleeping. The vividness of his senses were too vibrant, even for a lucid dream.
His conclusion: reality was very strange, especially since he was unused to such enigmatic goings on.
He needed to shut down the colors and "scents". It was the only way he would be able to do much more than the minor evaluations he had just performed.
And with that thought, as impossibly simple as it was, everything came into focus. The rings vaporized into nothingness and his eyesight improved, though not enough to see properly. He needed glasses. How curious that he didn't recall this earlier.
And even more curious; he had, in only about two seconds, gone through such a large train of thoughts and subconscious action. How interesting.
Although he could no longer see the rings, it was easy enough to observe he was not in congenial company. He could practically taste the malevolent intention around him. Aside, was the obvious shock at his action of blocking what had clearly been some sort of curse. He was not foolish enough to think that such pain had come from a ray of emotion simply by itself. Nor did he miss the distinct latin word, Crucio, which translated roughly to torture, afflict, harrow, rack, tantalize, tease, and torment. And from the fact that he knew such a definition, he was positive that he must be one of these magical beings himself, or less likely, that at his evidently young age (if the hormonal reaction to the mans ring was anything to go by) he was fluent in Latin. He was fairly certain that such a word had not been spoken with good intentions. And even more than that, he now knew that it would be unwise to reveal any more of his unknown abilities, even by accidental discovery, which unfortunately was practically inevitable giving his apparent case of acute amnesia. His lack of a name to call himself had been enough, if nothing else had given it away as well.
Yes, discression would be best, as would be a façade. No need to antagonize a clearly more, well equipped foe.
"Er...has anyone seen my specs?" he asked, turning to the figures around him. "I'm pretty sure I dropped them somewhere." He did not know how he came to be sprawled on the ground, though in retrospect, it was plain to see that they were the cause. He was aware that they knew he had not simply "dropped" his glasses somewhere. In fact, had it not been for the slight irritation on the bridge of his nose, he would have assumed that they were the cause of his poor eyesight.
At this point, he figured that it would be more than fine to let them know of his "problem". Let them think he is a know-nothing idiot; an idiot who now had no recollection of what has happened. He could bet that within ten minutes he would know everything he needed to; even through whatever twisted version they gave him, to regain his memories.
He only prayed that before this, he had intelligence enough to act like a teenager with age appropriate ignorance, instead of the superior mind he had. Which reminded him…
How to discover his name?
"What impudence…" whispered the woman to his right
"He dares speak to the Dark Lord in such a way!"
"Why is he not de-"
"Hush, Cissy...our Lord is thinking." he frowned. He had heard enough to guess that they were some sort of Cult, or coven of magical beings, and that they followed this supposed Dark Lord. Why were they so antagonistic towards him? Why was he not one of them? The man whom had given off the pleasant rings, he assumed, was this "Dark Lord". Easily deducted, as he too was drawn to follow the man, simply for the pleasure of it. But if he was attracted to him in such a primal way, why was he not a follower as well? Why an enemy?
Or had he discovered some secret? Perhaps he was a deserter? Though why would he? He was agog to the mere thought.
There was so much which he needed answered! How utterly maddening!
"Look if you're just going to stand there can someone at least point me to-oh." He felt a pair of two round panes of glass thrust into his hand and, inwardly grinning; he sighed, letting them know his irritation, even if they would misconstrue the reason.
"Thank yo-holy shit!" In his shock, he shrank back at the sight of two crimson eyes staring him right in the face; a serpentine countenance accompanying them on the face of what he knew must be the said "Dark Lord"
Everything, from the way his entire being radiated with a demand for fear and respect to his grotesque but strangely pleasing appearance, told him that this man was not someone to be insulted. Not that he could find any reason why he would wish to, other than the stench of self superiority. His presence seemed to give off a deep, dominating energy and it cloaked around him...as if embracing his very soul. He decided that perhaps he enjoyed it, even more than he had thought before, and in a moment of slipped control, he hummed softly, and unconsciously inhaled as if he would be able to capture it in his lungs.
Voldemort observed the boy carefully, his eyes narrowed when the cogs in the child's head seemed to churn with questions and lightning fast conclusions. Momentary shadows of confusion were quickly snuffed out with the glow of wonder, inquisitiveness and a previously absent glimmer of high intelligence.
Were he not absolutely livid by the boys survival of the entire ordeal, he may have found it interesting. However he now found it mildly disconcerting. How has Potter survived yet another killing curse? It was inconceivable! Virtually impossible…unless…
No. It couldn't…there was no way he could have.
Yet the evidence was staring him directly in the face, without fear, without caution. Instead, in contrast to the anger and youthful fervor that had surrounded potter before, he now gazed at his arch enemy with what could only be curiosity and…deference? What had happened to the boy? He doubted he had ever witnessed such a confounding spectacle, and with that thought, he wormed an extension of himself into the deepest pits of the Potter boy's mind.
How surprised was he, when his nemesis began to purr at the invasive probe to his mind? He was utterly stunned to say the least. For one, the boy was welcoming him within; that would have been shocking enough. But what took him by complete surprise, not an easy feat, was that his mind scape was, in all senses of the word, blank. It was as if someone had removed every thought and memory from his head and replaced them with a white sheet of paper. There was absolutely… nothing.
He knew he was acting completely rediculous. But that...warmth felt superbly delicious. He had no idea what the Dark Lord was doing, though he had an inkling, as the floaty sensation branched from the center of his head, gathering around the eyes and spidering outward. Was this a type of magical embrace? No. As much as he would like to think of it in such a way, it was clearly invasive, perhaps searching his mind. Hehad no doubt that a Dark Lord could perform a mind reading. But in the several moments of silence between them, he had already deducted that he felt rather detached from his body, and not only because of the mild euphoria that was overtaking him. He had once read (though he wondered how he could remember such a thing, and not his own name) of the strange, uncanny metaphysical link to the astral planes that amnesiacs possessed. Supposedly, without memories to back up intelligence and learned bodily functions, such as speech; one could not function and would be as if brain dead. However, one could also think, and even more clearly so, in the astral realms, while still residing in one's body. They called it bi-location. He chuckled inside at the sheer dumb luck of the situation. Though he was sadly disappointed that he now knew he had been nowhere near this intelligent previous to losing his memories, he was grateful that he would now be severely underestimated.
Ah but the pleasures in life were so short lived, and he all but whimpered when he felt the presence pull back, leaving him cold again. Shame, really. He felt that he could once have lived perfectly content with nothing but that warmth in his life.
"Nnh wait." He instantly cringed at his own inarticulate, and unconscious plea. Nevertheless, he still reached out, opening the eyes he never noticed he had shut and grabbed the sleeve of the Dark Lord's robe, momentarily enjoying the softness of the thin, silk fabric.
He looked up at the dominating figure of the man, eyes pleading. He knew he should be ashamed of his rather desperate and wanton need for more, but he, for one, cared very little. It was…soothing, and it helped him think. "That felt really good..." he insisted, hoping he would not have to beg too hard, especially in front of all of his cronies.
"Master?" he watched as a woman approached from behind and he could hear in her tone that above all else, be it loyalty or devotion, she lusted after this man. A hot rise of jealousy boiled up within him and without a second thought he quickly pulled himself closer to the snake like man and wrapped his arms around his hips with a primal, threatening growl of possessiveness. That pretty magic was his!
But almost instantly he realized what he had done, how he had been thinking and quickly forced the strange need to the back of his mind, his grip loosening, but not entirely. He enjoyed being close to him.
"Remove your hands this instant you little maggot!" she shrieked at him in a mad rage, lunging forward in one swift, foolish move.
"Crucio!" green eyes sparkled with fascination when the woman collapsed into a writhing screaming puddle of agony. It had only been on unconscious reflex he had said it. But he had never expected it to actually work. And to cause such a lovely reaction? Oh, yes. He greatly enjoyed having that sort of power over the disgusting woman. It was a greater pleasure than even the Dark Lord had given him, and the thought of causing her such pain brought a giggle to his throat…or had that been a mild cackle?
But as he looked around to those around him, even that pleasure was dampened by the mixed expressions of surprise, disbelief and fury aimed at him. Only the dark lord, to whom he was still attached, seemed to find any amusement in the situation. He could appreciate that bare hint of a smirk, but it only meant, he knew, that the man was thinking deeply and quickly.
"Finite." The dark lord drawled lazily, with a wave of his wand, making the woman gasp for the air that her own screams had forced from her lungs as the agony subsided.
He watched as the man looked down at him. The shine of slight madness had brightened, glittering down at him like two rubies, and he wondered what the man could possibly be thinking, though he was sure he was no longer in any imminent danger. Not now, as he had clearly impressed the Snake.
::My, my, Potter.:: He almost missed his namesake in the daze that the soft hisses induced, not quite English, but easily understandable. This would call for evaluation later. ::For one who has no mind left, you are quite talented with dark curses.:: The tone was amused, but laced with inquisitive concern.::And I do not appreciate you torturing my death eaters.::
Potter: that was his surname. It was plain to see that "Potter" could not be his first name. Not unless his mum had been entirely mad and generally cruel. Which, to be honest, could be perfectly possible.
Harry chose his words carefully. Any direct talk of this "dark curse" on his part would end in disaster, as he had no knowledge of how it was cast other than speaking the word. But as all of the others were carrying wands, including the "Dark Lord", he could safely assume that to cast a crucio without one, was a substantially impressive accomplishment.
The man already had figured out his condition. That much was evident, and to be frank, potter would have been disappointed had he not. What fun was there when there was nobody of your level of intelligence? So why not learn back what he had forgotten. He knew exactly what to begin with.
::What is,:: He just avoided choking on his words, a bit surprised by his apparent ability to speak the same, strange tongue. Was it a common thing? It certainly went against logic that he could speak it so unconsciously. But then again- he held back a smirk- something told him that his very existence defied logic. ::Your name, my liege?::
Potter knew it may have been a bit overkill to address the man so, but being the Serpentine figure was a Dark Lord, and he had no more than a vague estimate of his standing amongst this group; he used the first lord-like euphemism he could think of. He was sure it was appropriate, but even geniuses were wrong from time to time.
Voldemort just couldn't resist. In that one, simple sentence the boy had given away more information than he could possibly imagine. Harry potter had, by means he would never have deemed probable, had lost all memory. And even more miraculous, he had somehow acquired a level of intelligence so very close to his own. A sinister grin spread widely over his face, almost splitting it in half.
Under normal circumstances, he would have raised hell upon discovering that Harry Bloody Potter was, in fact; his equal, in every sense of the word. But only hours before, in a small stroke of what he could only call luck, the old coot's pensive had been left out. By whom, he was unsure, but how foolish of them. They had provided him with a phenomenally powerful sea of knowledge.
Finally, at long last, he had been able to hear the entire prophesy. Until this moment, he had been fuming with rage at his own ignorance. It was a mistake he should never have made, a glitch he should never have overlooked, marking potter. He should have kidnapped him, raised him under the influence of the dark, allowed the boy to become what, ironically enough, he now seemed to possess the fundamentals to be. An equal. Not marked, but made. The prophesy would have shattered.
But that was neither here nor there. The problem at hand was that the prophesy had finally completed itself. Harry had effectively killed him during the incident with the diary all those years ago, along with every horcrux so far destroyed. But there had still been Voldemort himself. The big piece.
Should Potter, Merlin forbid, have succeeded in killing him, Voldemort would have truly died. Of that he had once been sure.
But that had not happened. He had killed potter….or rather…the horcrux inside of him. It was the only possible explanation. The first time, it was obvious that Lilly Potter had been dabbling in some darker potions work that any would have given her credit for. He had spent months with the simple task of researching her uncannily powerful sense of magic. Mudbloods could be quite intelligent, this he knew. But when it came down to magic, there was a fine line between the power and the calculated precision that one could use behind a spell or incantation.
It was natural that Lilly potter had a talent for Brewing. It was an art that did not require the assistance of wand work. But blood magic was quite different. Almost all blood rituals were a highly complicated melting pot of potionry, spell casting and rune manipulation. Lilly potter should not have been capeable. Had she truly been a mudblood, she would not have had the incredibly large, inherent magical core of a pureblood wizard.
It was all so maddening, Dumbledors twisting of Salazar's detailed study into mere pomp and prejudice. Magic was built through generations. Muggle blood simply deluded their abilities. Even his own father had proved himself the son of a squib and a well hidden wizard.
Same as how Lilly Potter had been born to third generation squibs. It wasn't uncommon for squibs to stick to their own, rather than marry muggles. Their hopes for a magical child were too high. Indeed squibs could be just as pompous of their blood status, compared to muggles, as a pureblood to a mudblood.
The result of his research had been near unbelievable. Lilly potter, nee evans' great grandmother had been none other than Hephzibah Gaunt, the squib (and appropriately disowned) sister of Marvolo Gaunt.
But now, Harry Potter sat, alive and relatively well. There was no other possible way. It explained so much, that he had been a horcrux. The ability to speak parseltongue would have been too muddled before that night, but with the combination of blood magic, and his own soul forced into the child at an early age, it must have brought the dormant ability to the surface. Had the boy not been related to Slytherin, Potter would have lost the ability of Snake Tongue along with the piece of himself.
So…what to do now?
Potter gazed up at the Dark Lord with unhidden fascination. Upon asking the man's name, he had, in the same manner as before, allowed the rings of intent to return. It made sense that if they were indeed enemies, the name given could be false. He would not be deceived. He was tired of lies. Why? He was unsure. But they were what he loathed most in this world; lies, and manipulation. How hypocritical of him, he thought.
But during the few seconds it took for the serpentine figure to answer, a wave of intent, emotion and magic completely entranced him. His sensitivity to the Dark Lord clearly increased when his ability was "activated"; which made a small bit of sense. But it could definitely pose as a problem, as his thinking process decreased, he would estimate, about 10 percent because of the distraction it caused.
He almost missed it when he was lifted to his feet by the man and embraced him. Surprise and offense surrounded him from the onlookers, but he could not care less. The electricity that had begun to speed through his veins tore away his ability to care of anything but making his capillaries scream with the feeling of this man for the rest of his life. It was better than, he could imagine, the best sex in the world. A small voice in the back of his head grumbled that he was still detached from himself, and that he still wasn't getting the full brunt of it. But a wiser, and definitely foreign voice overruled it.
"Ahh, but were you all here, you would not feel it at all, Little Harry."
Harry….his name was Harry…but…who was this man…this miraculous, beautiful, powerful man whom inspired loyalty in others, and …this…in him? His voice made harry shudder uncontrollably, and his vision was clouded once more, but with a bright darkness he could not possibly explain, nor find logic in. Darkness was not bright…yet here he was engulfed in just such a thing.
"to answer your question, most refer to me as Voldemort."
In mid translation of the name, all capacity for thought escaped Harry when a pair of un-lips, cold, but burning with magic brushed against his ear in a way that seemed almost …intimate.
::But, you may call me Marvolo::
So, this is much better and goes along with my current style of writing. As you can see, this chapter is very lengthy for a 5 minute time span. This wont be happening much more often. It's the prologue, so i wanted to demonstrate things that would not show up much in the story. like the rediculously complicated and lengthly self conversations those two love birds have.
The plotline of the story has changed, though there wasnt much of one to begin with. And i cannot promise i will keep up frequent updates. I have a full-time job and often come home EXHAUSTED. but i will do my best to continue this tale.
as for the length? i have long since discovered that i grow easily bored. and when the story doesnt become too tedious, it tends to unravle at the seams. even in this chapter alone, i had to back track just to make sure i stayed on topic and got around to the points. i am not as inteligent as the characters i manipulate, sadly. or rather, i AM as inteligent, just far more hypractive and scrambled.
But back to the point. this will probably be about 10 to 15 chapters of approximately 10 to 20 pages in length. thats as far as im willing to let it go. any longer and it will either be abandoned or just simply fall apart...and inevitably abandoned because of that.
so yes. most of thier inner monologues will be kept under wraps from now on, since i think you get the the point.
theyre really smart, they thing really fast, we get it.
great! moving on.
as for the romance bit. it wont be in any way lovey dovey. thats the point to the addictive pleasure. it sets off something that probably shouldnt be done.
so yeah. warning to cuddly AU voldemort/harry's. this will be a borderline both ways abusive relationship based soely on venting thier utter hatred for everything. meaning lots of angry kink, and possibly guro, if i decide to go that far.
other than that, i have no idea what's going to happen or how it will end.
but thats life, isnt it?