Perfect Places

Chapter 2

Like others by tenderness,

On your life and your youth,

I want to reign through fright

The Revenant – Beaudelaire

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Potter freezes when he sees him in the kitchen.

Voldemort says nothing, his eyes riveted on his book. He wants to say nothing, for it is up to Potter to break the silence, leave this torpor he had found himself engulfed into.

"What-" Potter begins in a brittle voice, then firmer, his heartbeat accelerating. "What the hell?"

Voldemort still stays silent, and turns a page from Magike Moste Evile. It is not its author's best work, for it is full of contradictions that recent research had shed light on, but it is still a passable reading. One that fulfils its role, providing an adequate distraction while Potter goes through the five stages of grief.

"Voldemort?" Potter slowly says.

Voldemort rests the book on the table. He raises an unimpressed eyebrow at Potter, who stares at him unashamedly. "No," he says. "You must have mistaken me for someone else."

"Not funny!" Potter shrieks. He still is gasping but slowly manages to regain a semblance of composure, circling the table to take place a few seats away from Voldemort. "Care to explain yourself?" he asks, staring as if Voldemort would morph back into his known appearance should he concentrate deep enough.

It is extremely amusing, and perhaps frightening for the sake of humanity, Voldemort thinks, how easily disturbed their supposed saviour is. He does not fault the boy, however, for he knows that many older men could have fallen to such deceit.

Many might claim the contrary, but he knows the truth. If not the sole factor of the perception of one, there is a phenomenon that calms the spirits at the sight of something desirable. Whether it is the appearance of a person, or the physical representation of a need, their natural distrust tends to dissipate.

"Is it relevant?" Voldemort asks. He still is the picture of phlegm; one that he is certain to infuriate and confuse the boy. In a matter of seconds, Potter's perception of him has taken a sharp turn; be it for the calmness that he displays, or the physical changes he now wears.

Potter stays silent for a second, still sparing him a few glances. "I guess not" he finally says, full of a cautiousness that is bound to fade.

Voldemort smiles then; sharp but still less than the display of fangs he had given before. The boy blinks, and it fills him with such self-satisfaction that it could almost overcome his lingering anger. "There is a spell I wish to try, today," he says.

Potter, who had chosen to stare at his coffee to avoid his gaze, raises his eyes."... Alright?"

"I desire for your intervention," Voldemort continues, as if the boy had not spoken. It is not a demand, rather clothed in the mantle of information. "Far too long have been our entrapment in this place."

"This, I agree" Potter mumbles. Then, raising a dubious eyebrow. "What makes you think that it will work this time?"

It won't. The boy does not need to know this, though.

"Waiting for a miracle cannot be a suitable alternative," he says, his tone still adorned by this softness his circle had learned to fear. "I intend to try everything within my power; and I assure you, it is a very wide definition."