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the day i was wooed by death	By : ChibiChocobo Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Voldemort Views: 2393 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter nor am I making any profit off of this piece of fiction.

Chapter List
- 1-you won't see me coming in
- 1
Chapter 01
you won't see me coming in
Inhale, exhale.
Three, two, one.
Inhale, exhale.
One, two, three.
Inhale…
Harry Potter’s eyes snap open and coolly survey the coagulated blood creeping along white tiles. The Muggle woman's broken body is splayed before him, her blank eyes staring at him accusingly. The expression on her face is one of absolute terror; the face everyone makes when they know with gut wrenching finality that they are going to die. He's seen this look a million times before, and it is one he will continue to see for as long as he remains useful.
Death's become such a daily part of his life that it is almost inconsequential. He stopped fighting the urge to vomit long ago. Now, he feels nothing but a peculiar emptiness that wasn't there before. It's almost like a part of him has been chiseled away when he wasn't looking. Every day, he lives with a noose around his neck and it's getting harder and harder to see every time. He feels like he's drowning.
Harry knows his sanity is hanging by a frayed thread, and he also knows it's of no consequence to Moody or Scrimgeour. As long as he performs to their standards, as long as he remains a means to their ends, as long as they get their promotions, he can foam at the mouth and choke on the bit until he has to be put down like a rabid dog. He's the weapon they keep around like a dirty secret, tugging at his strings and making him dance. He's considered unstable, incompetent, and he knows they're just waiting for him to explode like a nuclear bomb.
“Find anything yet, Potter?”
Harry doesn't glance away from the woman, barely giving Moody any indication he heard him. He finds the dead much easier to look at. They're like puzzle pieces, and he has to assemble them to create a big picture. Living people are too distracting, too scattered. They have too much going on, and he can't keep up. They're too loud, and they move too much. He can't piece them together like corpses. He's afraid of what he'd see if he tried.
"You're not supposed to be here," Harry says. "No one is. That's the agreement."
"I'll bloody well go where I like, Potter," Moody growls. The Auror shambles forward, the heavy sounds of his uneven gait echoing around them. "I'll remind you that this is my crime scene, not yours so get to work and do your damn job."
Pinching at the bridge of his nose, Harry scrubs a hand through the tangled mess of curls atop his head and turns to the other man. He angles his body away and focuses in on the patch of skin between the furrowed brows. Ever since childhood, he's hated eyes. They're too distracting, too personal. They say too much, and if he can see them, maybe they can see him. The thought terrifies him.
"We agreed I'd get the house to myself for five minutes. This is personal, and private and I can't do what you want with you hovering over my shoulder. I need to be by myself."
Huffing, Moody rolls his magical eye into the back of his head, no doubt scanning the entrance to the house. He may be wise but he is without a doubt one of the most paranoid people Harry's ever met. Perhaps that's why he's survived so long in this line of work. His aging face, stocky statute, mean scowl and furrowed brows remind Harry of his aunt's English Bulldog. He never did like the beast.
The ironic humor isn't lost on Harry.
He can’t help thinking snidely, ‘Fudge’s ever faithful guard dog.’
"You get four minutes, and I'm waiting in the other room," Moody says. "I'm not letting someone like you have unlimited access to a crime scene unchaperoned. Who knows what could happen?"
Clenching his jaw, Harry does his best to ignore the jab at his mental state. He'd rather not get into it with Moody right now. It isn't worth the effort and it's a waste of breath. He could scream that he wasn't crazy until he's blue in the face, and no one would believe him. He'd rather get this over and done with as quickly as possible so he doesn't have to deal with the unpleasant Auror for longer than needed.
"Thanks," Harry replies curtly.
Grumbling under his breath, Moody leaves the room. Harry breathes a sigh of relief. Finally, he can focus on the task at hand. Turning to the woman, he gives her a once over, analyzing all the pieces of her left behind. She appears to be in her mid-to-late twenties with a semi-active lifestyle, most likely unattached.
Various lacerations cover her body, some so deep he can see the milk of her bone and other's so shallow they look like paper cuts. Her limbs are spread haphazardly, and judging by the awkward angle of her right arm, she tried to fight back. Beneath the metallic tang of her blood, there's a rather peculiar scent. It's heady and rich, burning white hot with a dash of some unnameable spice. Residual dark magic leaves behind an impression that can last for some time, and it aids them in their investigations. Though for dark magic to have such a strong, lingering presence hours after the murder...The castor must be very powerful indeed.
The black magic dances across his skin, curling around his own muddled magic and digging its talons in. It tugs as his aura playfully, some unspoken urge it wants him to follow. He feels each yank in his gut, behind his navel. The sensation is very similar to using a portkey. Harry ignores the uncomfortable prodding to the best of his abilities, trying to push the strange, vaguely familiar impressions to the back of his mind. Now is not the time to dwell upon such things.
The Muggle's skin is an absolute wreck; burned and blackened in some areas, and flayed in others. Whoever did this had the time and patience to do whatever they wanted to her. Dedication like this took hours, and she most likely suffered through them all. She could have had a quick death due to blood loss, but Harry finds that far fetched. Most likely, they wanted her alive for as long as possible. In the end, what killed her was something simple, like the Killing Curse.
This killer focused on how she died, not so much her death. This was her last great performance in life, meant to be special. What killed her was of no importance because in the end she would be dead. The act of her dying is what was important, otherwise they wouldn't have gone to all the trouble in torturing her.
Exhale.
"Why're you so special?" Harry kneels beside her, verdant eyes jumping across her face, searching for any kind of answer to his question. After a long moment of silence, he pauses. He considers the corpse before him, gaze hard and hands clasped between his bent knees. "No, you're not important. What you stand for is important. That's why I killed you. You're a nobody, no one will miss you, you're nothing but cattle to me. At least by killing you, I've helped you accomplish something with your miserable life. Your death will help me pave the way."
Harry stands tall over her broken body, hearing distant screams echo across the expanse of his mind. The sight of her blood makes some dark presence inside awaken, clawing at the stitching of his person suit. A feral grin stretches his lips wide.
"Breaking into your flat was almost too easy. You never even saw me coming. I hid myself away until the opportune moment, you only saw me because I let you see."
He circles her like a vulture, sparing her a disinterested glance as he continues to peer into the darkness, and it peers back.
"Your life was meaningless, worthless. I gave you purpose, a reason to be. With every bit of flesh I carved away, with every burn and slice, I transformed you into a higher state of being. I have lifted you from the filth of your world because you are important. You are an invitation, a gift. You are my olive branch, my calling card. I want someone truly worthy to come play a game with me."
When he slams back into himself with sudden clarity, Harry's mind is a jumbled mess of contradicting thoughts and voices. He knows some are not his own, he knows the thirst for blood tickling the back of his throat is not him, but it does not help ward away the disorientation or banish the lingering void. He feels cut to the bone, drained of energy. He can feel his core flickering weakly in his chest, a sputtering flame on the verge of going out. It never does though. It is the price he pays to delve into the abyss. A splitting migraine worms its way to the forefront of his consciousness and he groans, smoothing a hand across his forehead. This killer is unlike any he's ever encountered before. Such a dark, downright sinister presence. He will be a tricky one to catch, if they even can. He doesn't strike Harry as one to be sloppy with his work.
Stumbling towards the doorway, Harry begins to report back to Moody when it catches his eye. Freezing, his gaze glues itself to an inconspicuous black smudge seared into the flesh across the Muggle's ribs. He squints, trying to distinguish it from the rest of her burns. When it begins to undulate, and what appears to be squiggles take shape, Harry's heart jolts in his chest and he feels violently ill.
'No, no. It can't be,' he thinks, horrified. He falls to his knees next to her, wincing as pain jutters up from his kneecaps, desperate for a closer look. 'Please, no.'
No amount of desperate pleading makes the shifting letters disappear, and he wishes with every fiber of his being that he didn't know what it meant, what it was. It's haunted him since he was a young child, one among many things that made him different, a freak of nature even among his own kind. Staring back at him innocuously branded into a dead girl's skin is a message. It is written in parseltongue. It is for him.
Hello again, Harry. Fancy a game?
- 1
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the day i was wooed by death