Seven Times Seventy

Seven Times Seventy

By llama_pervert

Can you feel it?

He was seven.

I can; the glare of victory - triumph - after so much failure. Victory. Hear how it rolls off your tongue, Harry? Yes, it has a sweet smell, victory - a smell I savour. I've no doubt you've smelled this smell before, Harry - this mingled smell of sweat and tears, and that reek of desperation and lost hope - the smell of fear, some call it. But to me, it's the smell of victory - victory after so much defeat.

He stood in the shadows of the attic, shaking; the clothes on his back were flimsy and thin, barely protecting him against the cold draft penetrating the room through the shattered window. This room was empty - except for a few empty crates and boxes stacked up high against the wall. It was semi-dark, with jagged shadows jumping up one wall, where the boxes stood in the way. He was watching these shadows - for he knew the well-known rippling shadow of a man would soon appear.

Failure - perhaps I overstate, Harry? Perhaps I'm being overly dramatic? For when you look at it - really look at it - I've not failed at all. I stand here, tonight, the winner. Perhaps the times that you've beaten me should only be called minor setbacks. You doubted, maybe, that I would ever return to power - but I did. Then you doubted my abilities - and here I am. I, the captor, you, the captured. How the tide turns, eh Harry? How it turns.

He dared not breathe or move; for he knew, now more than ever, he had to get this right, or he would die. And to die now, would that not be such a release? But to die without his vengeance, to die without his honour restored, that was the thought he couldn't bear - and it consumed him, as it had so many times, when at night, the rippling shadow appeared, carrying the smell of whiskey and smoke and infernal lust. The smell of the devil. It consumed him with anger and hate and fear and shame.

Of course, setbacks aren't new to me. I've had many on my long path to this victory. The first was my blood, the second my fears, the third my - should we call it my conscious? - and then, the fourth of course, Harry, is you. Minor setbacks, but setbacks. They've made my task a lot harder, Harry, a lot harder. But I never gave up. Never.

He stood, trembling, the lanky boy with the black hair and death pale skin, waiting patiently. He was sweating, and trickles of liquid curled down his back and dotted his high forehead. Anne had always said he looked like an angel; but he felt like the forsaken Lucifer; and his thoughts haunted him, for the question he had been asking since he could think screamed at him -Why has God left me? Why has God left me? - as he stood trembling, waiting.

Perhaps it is something that runs in my blood, Harry, I do not know; though I am proud to be the only heir of Salazar Slytherin, these old lines are no use to one in the here, in the now. Certainly they may strengthen your hold on your servants, but apart from that...skill, talent, decisions and power are what matter, Harry. What really matters, though, is determination. I've never given up and I never will. The path I chose all those years back, as a young boy - the path, you could call it, to find freedom for those like me - is a difficult one. Treacherous the road was.

It had been so easy to plan - so easy, he thought it must be God's way out for him. The Mrs had gone for her evening activities with friends, and The Mister would be alone and drunk and the stage would be set. He would stumble around the house, knocking things over as he went, calling and looking for Tommy-boy. And tonight, tonight he would find him. He'll find him.

But here I am, Harry, here we are.

It happened then. His knees buckled under him, and he slid down the wall to sit in a heap, tears stinging his eyes, throat burning. And the calling started, the yell from downstairs: 'Tommy-Boy!'. And he sobbed, a sob that tore through his heart and shredded him. He couldn't understand, he didn't want to; and he asked again, asked why, and sobbed. And all the while the cries of 'Tommy-boy!' screamed in his ears as The Mister tracked him down to his hiding place in the attic.

Alas, Harry, that we've come to face each other like this. It might seem strange and twisted to you, what I'm doing; I don't doubt that. But is what you've done not strange and twisted as well? Always seeking out evil and fighting it; always 'saving the day' (something that cost you dearly those years ago). Is that not as twisted as creating evil? Though, Harry, I'm losing my thread here, as I do not truly believe in 'good' and 'evil'. I told you back then, and I tell you now - there is no good or evil, only power. Power is all that matters.

The shadow appeared, the thick, rippling shadow danced on the wall - and he forced himself onto his feet. His long, delicate fingers clung to the cold wall behind him, searching for some sort of comfort and consolation; but the cool stone offered nothing. He stood and waited. The Mister stumbled into the room, and saw him; his piggy eyes popped and his chins wobbled, and he stuttered into the room, dropping the bottle of cheap whiskey as he came. He stood, trembling, trying to avoid the overwhelming stench; but it engulfed him, rolled over him.

Maybe you don't believe me about this, Harry. Truthfully, I do not care. But I would like to point this out to you: I seek power and am therefore labelled evil. Yet you seek to stop me from gaining power and gain your own kind of power in the process, yet you are called a hero. Fine line, isn't it Harry? A very fine line indeed. The difference is this: you toe the line, and I step over it. Haven't you ever heard the jest that 'rules are there to be broken'? Indeed, I believe they are.

'Tommy-boy!' cried The Mister again gleefully, coming to stand before him. 'Tommy-boy! Why do you hide? I will always find you!' The stench rolled over him, and he absorbed it; the fat arm lashed out to slap him, but the boy ducked and ran to block his line of escape. The Mister's teeth were bared in a primal snarl - and he started forward, fist raised.

It's all about intentions? Harry, Harry. Intentions? What does our intentions matter? Your intention was to stop me. Mine is to kill you. Both of us seek power, and there is only one intention with power: to use it. Yes, to wield it. There is no simpler way to state it, Harry. When you hunt for power your only intention can be to wield it. There are no other ways. No 'two way street', no loopholes, no different answers.

It glinted in the faint light, glinted and shone and shimmered; beautiful, sleek and silver; it tore forward, again and again and again, until The Mister lay choking in his own pool of red blood. And as he gagged and begged and slurped, the boy lowered himself onto his haunches. Hesitantly, he stuck out a pale finger and dipped it in the red blood and, taking a whiff of it, licked his finger; and it was his turn to snarl, his turn to smile. He laughed then, a cold, high laugh, half hysteric in its ecstasy, and sidled from the room. He was crying tears of blood.

But alas, Harry, our time together must end. I have waited so long, I have struggled for so long - and here we are. Some would say we are soul mates, you and I - for our destinies do not only cross, but intertwine. And with the fulfilling of the prophecy, Harry, our destinies will unfurl - yours will end, and mine shall go on. With your destiny at an end, mine shall truly begin. Goodbye, Harry.

And he was free.