Grandloves//Tomarry

1

His eyes are on hers.

The cold metal skims beneath her chin, her eyes are wide and bright and he's seen the color many a time before, often from the tip of his own wand; a lethal flash of green.

Bone of the father, unknowingly given

Her arm bleeds profusely—it's getting everywhere, down her shirt and splattered against her cheek in a smear of red and up on her forehead, almost in the hair (how did it even get there?), dripping patterns onto the stone of his father's grave.

Flesh of the servant, freely given

This is impossible. The bane of his existence, splayed before him, defenseless and frightened; yet he cannot will himself to move.

Blood of the enemy, forcibly taken

"Lyra Potter," He hisses, "We meet at long last."

His servants shiver behind him. He smells their intoxicating fear and it elicits satisfaction in him. There is nothing more rewarding than the potent smell of terror—it wafts from the girl like an alluring siren song. She shivers and his eyes trace the movement. She is terrified, but in her eyes is a fatuous anger, a bravery that will surely get her killed. By his hand, he hopes—no, he knows.

The parseltongue slides off his tongue, and he relishes the feel of the words once more, after so long without the capacity. "Have any last words, Lyra? Perhaps you would like to beg..." The idea entices him; little Lyra Potter, on her knees before him. "Yes, just like your mudblood mother—

"I would never give you the satisfaction!" She spits back.

He blinks, eyes narrowing. He moves towards her and she defiantly holds his stare, though she shakes so violently that her knuckles turn white in the effort to stay still. He brings his hand up, and she flinches back as he brushes her unruly hair away from her forehead, revealing the mark he made fourteen years ago.

He frowns at it, turning his gaze back to hers.

"How long have you spoken the ancient, serpent tongue?"He murmurs.

Her brow furrows warily. And then, rebelliously, "What's it to you?"

His eyes flash, and in a moment his wand is against her throat. "Answer me, you stupid girl!"

"I don't know!" She grits out, struggling away from the wood at her neck.

Unbidden, a scene unravels behind his eyes. A fat, portly muggle child with a rude face slams his hands against a glass tank. Cousin, his mind associates. Stupid, stupid cousin. He slinks cautiously over to the glass, once the fat muggle has wobbled off in dissatisfaction. He presses a small hand onto the panel separating him from a large, lazy reptile. It is cold. The snake behind the glass blinks at him—he feels a kindred spirit in the serpent. "I'm sorry about him,"He says, but it's not his mouth and it's not his voice; soft, ephemeral, as if made only of sweet light. "He doesn't understand..."

He blinks out of the moment. It is not his moment. Not his memory. His gaze turns incredulous as he stares down at this slip of a girl.

She looks back. The fear and anger is overtaken by bewilderment.

He doesn't know how long he stands there, at the foot of his father's grave, looking up into the confused eyes of a little girl. Questions swim through his mind and answers are not forthcoming.

It must be some time, for finally, Pettigrew simpers behind him, "...My lord?"

"Leave us," He commands coldly, without turning around.

His servants shift nervously behind him, whispering. He whirls around in rage. "Did you not hear me?" He snarls. "Leave us! And thank your lord for such a merciful show of gratitude, for the punishment of your betrayal has been postponed!"

They bow quickly at that, a round of, "Yes, my lord," and "Thank you, my lord," murmurs through the crowd as they disapparate. Only Pettigrew is left, sniveling on his knees before him.

The dark lord narrows his eyes. "Must I repeat myself further, Wormtail? Or perhaps, you need more persuasion?"

Wormtail's eyes widen, before he shoots to his feet. "N—No, my lord!" He sputters, hastily bowing again. "Thank you, my lord!" He scrambles off quickly, tripping through the hedges as he goes.

The dark lord sneers at the pathetic sight, before he turns his attention once more towards Lyra Potter. He brings a hand to her face, gripping her chin and turning her unwillingly to face him. The mix of fear and bravery is admirable, but mostly it is dangerously intoxicating.

"Look at me,"He whispers, and almost against her own volition do her eyes open and meet his. Her mind is a shimmering pool behind the green—so clear and unprotected.

And he dives in, consuming her.

.

(He hadn't expected her to consume him as well)