A Dark Lord in the Making

Vitruvian Man

Harry stood silently in front of Marvolo's desk until the man acknowledged his presence. The brown-haired man, however, continued to write undisturbed and occasionally scratched spots on the map. Harry watched, almost hypnotized, as the older man worked his way through the map methodically and within bounds, apparently using reports he had piled up next to him.

The man's study was orderly, almost borderline clinical- too clean. Harry didn't dare run his finger along with the man's belongings, afraid of the repercussions. He had the distinct feeling that Marvolo didn't appreciate touching his things, that he didn't share in the items he'd collected so beautifully.

Some items in Marvolo's collection were illegal; Harry might be only thirteen, but he recognized certain framed drawings and paintings from the expensive magazines his aunt sometimes displayed on the coffee table. Not that the woman bothered to read them, she only had these magazines there to show friends and acquaintances that they were a very educated family.

The Vitruvian Man was an example of a work that Harry was sure should be in a Muggle museum somewhere- not on the wall in Marvolo's house. As he looked at the delicate lines on the yellowed paper, it occurred to him - not for the first time - what a contradiction the man was. Marvolo seemed at first sight to reject all the customs of Muggles, he seemed almost disgusted by them and clung to the customs of the Magical society.

And yet, with Harry standing so close to the Vitruvian Man, Harry couldn't help but feel that he was using a lot of ideas from the Muggle World. In the huge bookcase were books written by Muggles. He sometimes spoke about God, only to correct himself later by talking about the old gods. He called Muggles subordinate and inferior to wizards but did have several books on the innovations the Muggles had made.

What stood out most to Harry were the books he had on consanguinity and hereditary disorders- these books certainly weren't magical texts. From his position in front of Da Vinci's drawing, he could see the books in question. He had to admit that the books had a certain appeal, especially in regard to the radical mindsets that some Blood Purists had. At school he sometimes heard children talk, such as Draco Malfoy, but also noticed Zacharias Smith who regularly went on to say that he was a direct descendant of Helga Hufflepuff; a claim that he believed could be traced back to his blood.

Harry snorted when he thought of the nasty and cynical boy. A boy like the Hufflepuff was would never change, never evolve into something else, something better. He would always be stuck in his stereotypical perception of society and never look for flaws in himself- always in someone else.

He casually ran his hands over the little creature that was in his robe pocket. Harry had hoped that the mouse or rat- because it really was nothing more- would change further. But as the days passed, no skin or fur was added. Certain parts of the body were therefore open, organs exposed to the elements. The creature didn't seem to be bothered by it, it seemed to feel at home with Harry around and almost stayed glued to Harry's side.

Where the Vitruvian Man was perfection, the proportions of the body in proportion, the mouse was anything but perfection. However, it was the best of both worlds; between life and death. Where Harry's skin was flawless and perhaps comparably proportional to the Vitruvian Man, he was vulnerable, his life easily wasted to death. The creature wasn't dead, but it wasn't alive either- it was just there.

"Are you planning to stare at that drawing all day, contemplating humanism, or do you ask your question the way you intended?" the voice of liquid velvet interrupted him.

Harry was surprised that the voice sounded so close, but understood that when he bumped into a hard body as he turned to the sound. "You always look so unapproachable," Harry said, looking at the undead creature.