The Darkness Within: Voldemort/Hadria Potter

The Truth of It

As the first light of dawn crept through the curtains of the lounge room, Voldemort stirred from a restless slumber. The armchair, which had been a makeshift bed, left his body feeling cramped and unyielding, each muscle protesting the awkward angles of the night's repose. His head pounded with the relentless throb of a hangover, the aftermath of the fire whiskey he had consumed in an attempt to drown the tumultuous thoughts that plagued him.

The sensation of warmth and the soft rise and fall of breath against his chest drew his attention downward. Hadria, her presence a comforting weight, lay curled up in his lap, her slumber undisturbed by the light of the new day. He recalled, through the haze of alcohol-induced fog, her arrival the night before, though the details of their exchange were vague...he remembered her telling him that she missed him...

Observing her now, she seemed so delicate, almost ethereal in her peaceful state, a stark contrast to the fierce and formidable woman he knew her to be. Her features, relaxed in sleep, were a canvas of serenity that belied the strength and resilience that coursed through her veins. She was a paradox in his arms, a creature of both grace and might, her beauty not just in her appearance but in her very essence.

Voldemort's gaze lingered on her, the sight stirring something within him—a mixture of admiration and a poignant sense of unworthiness. She embodied virtues he had long since abandoned, if ever he had possessed them at all. Her goodness, her strength, her unyielding spirit—they were qualities he found himself both coveting and revering.

Voldemort gazed upon Hadria, her gentle breaths a soothing rhythm in the quiet of the morning. He remained motionless, a statue of contemplation, fearing that even the slightest movement might disrupt the tranquility of the moment. He yearned for time to stand still, to prolong this peace as long as destiny would permit.

A torrent of unworthiness washed over him. He felt like a fallen being, unworthy of the celestial creature he held. The disparity between them was stark—a being of darkness cradling a being of light. How could he, marred by his own deeds, dare to bind her luminous spirit to his tarnished soul? The very thought of seeking her forgiveness seemed a sacrilege, for what absolution could be granted to one who was not deserving?

The day she had fled from him haunted his waking thoughts, a vivid memory that played over in his mind with cruel clarity. He remembered the way her heart had shattered before his eyes, the way her spirit had crumbled in the doorway of the study. And he, in his cursed state, had felt a perverse sense of amusement, followed by a surge of anger and contempt. He had wanted to inflict pain, to see her suffer.

The recollection was agony, the image of her despairing eyes seared into his memory, a relentless specter that promised to haunt him for eternity. It was a fitting penance, he thought—a just retribution for a soul as damned as his. He deserved no less than to be tormented by the pain he had caused, the pain he had relished in his darkest hour.

From the moment Hadria had entered his world, an infant with eyes wide open to the wonders and horrors alike, Voldemort's destiny had been irrevocably intertwined with hers. She had been the catalyst for his downfall, a necessary yet unwilling prelude to his resurrection. And now, she had become his savior, stepping willingly into the maw of danger to pull him back from the brink.

His fingers traced the outline of the dark mark on her skin, a symbol of his claim, taken by her not out of fear, but of a choice that spoke of a bond deeper than servitude. The thought of severing that connection, of setting her free from what had been forged between them, sent a tempest of doubt through his mind. Could he endure an existence devoid of her presence? The questions haunted him, a relentless echo in the chambers of his heart.

He knew his own desires, selfish as they were, but the consideration of what she truly deserved weighed heavily upon him. She was worthy of a love pure and untainted, a sentiment he felt was beyond his grasp. Love was a foreign concept to him, an emotion that had never graced the cold corridors of his life. Born into a world devoid of maternal warmth or paternal guidance, raised among those who neither understood nor cared for him, he had been shaped by a life devoid of affection.