Perfect Places

Chapter 5

On my destroyed shelters
On my crumbled beacons
On the walls of my boredom
I write your name

On the absence without desire
On the bare solitude
On the steps of death
I write your name

- Liberté, Paul Eluard

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It is easier than he would have thought to initiate contact.

It does not mean that Voldemort appreciates it. It merely means that he does not have to hide his recoil, for there is no recoil, nor smoothen his disgust into indifference. He displays, it is true, a mask of nonchalance that surprises him by its easiness.

The boy, he, reacts very far from indifference.

The first time Voldemort had brushed his fingers against the boy's shoulder - a boy, which he realizes has grown to be none at all, but Voldemort still painfully remembers the infant who had destroyed his body – Harry Potter had frozen. His entire body had gone still, a perfect statue of Medusa, with the incredulous horror her victims had born on their features, and Voldemort had wasted no time offering Potter sweet loneliness.

There had been no comment on the situation. This state of fact, added to the new crack on the door, Voldemort thinks, is a valuable aid. Harry Potter dares not to speak on the matter, not when he does not understand the meaning behind those light touches and where he had been much more daring, only a few weeks ago.

Voldemort does not forget, nor forgive. He remembers, quite vividly, the warm – disgusting – lips of the Boy-Who-Lived on his. He knows, and it pleases him; this cruel delight he had always felt when seeing a discomfort in others, one created by his own hands. He sees the shame, the incomprehension on Potter's face when his fingers linger too far, for far too long.

And thus, never one to suppress his own wills for the merit of others, even less when not asked to, Voldemort continues.

It is a touch on the boy's finger when he offers him a cup of tea, it is the brushing against the boy's back, shoulders when he passes near him, it is his breath on the boy's neck when he reaches for something near the boy.

Harry Potter is confused, he can see it clearly. He does not understand, not when Voldemort had always painted himself as a creature of fear, greatness and devotion; not one for those simpler pleasures.

The boy lessens his barriers, in retaliation. He grows less wary, offering his emotions as one offers his words, displaying them as a book can be wide open.

And they are a delight, Voldemort thinks, avidly drinking them whenever they pass on Potter's features. He is fascinated, this he realizes, by them. He relishes in their fierceness, in the fire that they light in the eyes of the boy, for it reminds him of another, of prophecies, and equals.

It is a pity, Voldemort surprises himself to think one day, for the boy to have been destined to stand against him. He thinks of Bellatrix and the fire that had animated her, the fierceness of her, he thinks of Rodolphus and his cold mind, his sheer devotion, he thinks of Rabastan and his promptness to obey, to please him, and the wittiness of his tongue, he thinks of Bartemius, and his impetuosity, his viciousness, and the worship in his eyes.

He thinks of Harry Potter, his loathing, and his prompt-to-give laugh.

He is not one to change his mind on such important matters, although. Harry Potter, for the hindrance in his plans, for having destroyed him, soul and body, will die. He will die, as all lesser men did, and Voldemort would live.