Wake
An Aesthetic sham
CHAPTER 1
And so Voldemort entered the room and spoke to himself in the most gentle and soft of voices.
"I wish, I wish, upon a fish- that I could kill that Harry Potter.
If that orphan boy I failed to slay
Could cease to live another day,
My dick would grown just a little hotter."
And so, with the grace and the glory of a grand centurion returning to Rome after a long conquest against the Vandals in the northern stretches of the known world, Voldemort presented his (at that moment) pitifully-sized pelvis-attached pimple pod.
And hither this gesture summoned several children, who, drawn like a magnet to the dark wizards wizardly whimsy, attached themselves to his thighs and fused with his body in a fleshy heap, demanding only the most finely crafted of sweets.
Voldemort, with the kind sternness of a Victorian English Governess, refused their demands for candy, warning them of the dangers of cavities. With said warning, he detached tumorous children from his thighs and whisked them to bed.
CHAPTER 2
Upon the eve of all hallows, Voldemort awakened with a fright. He had dreamed of himself and Harry Potter in the most unflattering of positions. The dream began with him, standing amidst a field of marigolds, frolicking as he did when he was a young lad. Suddenly, a large oak appeared from the core of the tiny planet on which he resided. From the leaves of this grand and mighty arbor, large fruits began to rapidly grow, ripen, and subsequently fall. As they hit the ground, the fleshy fruit exploded and forth came a deluge of sickly sweet juices. At the core of each fruit was a single Harry Potter. At the seedling state, each was a fetus, forehead inscribed with that much familiar charmingly trademark lightning scar. As each of the Harries took root in the fertile soil, they grew to maturity within moments, shocking Voldemort. The Harries unfurled their branches, blocking out the sunlight and causing Voldemort's verdant grassy field of childhood innocence to wither.
This dream frighted poor sweet Voldemort, filling him with a sense of oncoming dread. He felt it was an omen. He would meet harry at the Halloween party later that day. He was not excited.
CHAPTER 3
Snow covered the ground in a soft powdery sheet. Voldemort clutched his black cloak tightly around his shoulders to fend off the chill. Underneath, he was dressed to the nines for the Halloween party. Feeling confident on his outfit, he was determined to look better than that dastardly Harry Potter.
He arrived at the Ritz ballroom and shed his snow-speckled coat. He wore a gown of silky satin in pale peach, the hem cut low enough to show off just enough of his ankle to be only just scandalous. Rhinestones sewn into the dress caught the light and the skirt billowed with his movements. He paired his attire with a pair of shimmering flats and hoop earrings of rose gold, underlining both his innocence and flirtatiousness. Voldemort felt the outfit, besides looking stunning on him, reflected his inner self. Furthermore, it complemented his lack of nose.
At the bar, he spotted that Harry Potter. He felt the soul leave his body.
That whorish prat wore a low-cut red dress that shone in the lights, stiletto heels, dangling ruby earrings and a massive necklace--a gift from a lover, no doubt. To top it all off, his gown had a deep slit in the side, showing off his thigh. He, in his crimson gown, appeared to be the living incarnation of the Whore of Babylon: seductive, cruel and beautiful.
Voldemort was enraged.
CHAPTER 4
Voldemort understood instantly what his dream the night before signified. It foreshadowed the spotlight he longed for, that he deserved, would be snatched from his lips by his nemesis. Unwilling to let that Slut Harry Potter have the last laugh, Voldemort took to the bar and got himself a flute of their finest champagne.
He subsequently dashed the drink on Harry, hoping to ruin his dress.
However, unbeknownst to him, Harry Potter had a singular weakness, ethanol dissolved in water at approximately 12.3%, the exact alcohol content of Voldemort's champagne.
Harry began to shriek in ungodly agony only heard before in the very pits of hell. His flesh swiftly started to melt and fall off, slab by slab, puddling up in a visceral puddle on the floor, stinking of burning meat and blood. He fell to his knees, still screaming, his skin already melted through, muscle and bone exposed. For a moment, before he changed state completely into liquid, one could witness his internal organs still functioning in his abdominal cavity as they dissolved.
Everyone stared as the boy in drag died.
Then everybody cheered.
CHAPTER 5
Voldemort hadn't realized his catty action would result in death. He was taken aback entirely. The many attendees of the party, mostly fucklings from the Wizard's Warty School of Witchcraft, began buying him drinks and patting him on the back. The silly little schoolboys wished to shake his hand and take their pictures with him in front of the puddle that was only momentarily before one of their classmates. With his status as a known murderer, somehow he suddenly became so much more popular. People who never looked his way before now focused on him. Even Derek. Suddenly, he became the life of the party, and only at the cost of the death of one of his classmates.
If he'd known popularity was this easy, he'd have killed someone long ago.
However, Voldemort's victory didn't taste as sweet as his fantasies.
In his dreams, he wished to earn the respect and admiration of his peers through legitimate ways, not through exploiting death. Thus, embittered by his own success, Voldemort resolved to cast himself into the freezing fiery river of Kabhtal'Ku where his corpse would be frozen solid before immolated.
So, he did just that.
On all hallow's eve of that year, the deaths of both Harry Potter and Voldemort were mourned throughout the seven cosmos.
CHAPTER 6
Voldemort awoke in a white plane, dressed in pristine stainless scrubs or robes like those of a hospital or nunnery some other such facility. The bright lights disoriented him, but more unusual than the unnatural luminescence of his surroundings was the soft whispering in his mind, a whispering so quiet he couldn't make out a single syllable. He wandered through the void, stumbling. Nothing differentiated the ground he walked on from the atmosphere. As he walked, the whiteness gradually became brighter, emanating from a singular point, drawing in Voldemort. The closer he got, the mumbling in his mind gradually became sharper.
"Voldemort, approach my son." The wizard extended a hand toward the bright light.
"God.... is that you?" He said, voice trembling with awe.
The blinding light gradually dissipated, leaving a figure in silhouette until Voldemort's eyes adjusted, he could make the man out. An elder with a long snowy beard and wise yet kind expression. "No, I am no God. It is I, Dumbledore the Illustrious, Great Wizard of the Winter Kingdom, Decorated Warrior of the Desert People of Makaku."
Voldemort dropped to his knees. This man he faced was revered above God, a man who ascended to the Afterworld before his death. The only Eternal.
"I am not worthy to look upon thee, O Powerful One!" Voldemort groveled at the old wizard's feet.
"Oh, don't speak that way!" The legend alive scorned, "Everyone I meet talks to me like that! Spare me this, avert my eyes that! I’m simply sick of it!" Voldemort glanced up at the old wizard.
"Well... sorry about that, then."
"Oh! don't apologize! I can't stand apologies! If there’s anything worse than a groveling it’s an apology!" Voldemort couldn't help but feel disheartened at the harshness of his hero's critique. "Anyway, my boy, there's more you must learn!"
"Will you teach me?" The young lad asked, eyes sparkling.
"Young fool, you must learn yourself.” Spoke the wizened one. “Yet before you are revived, there is one truth I must impart upon you. You are my son, my one true son.”
"You can revive me?” Spoke Voldemort in awe, “But, my Lord, I have no father, I never did. I intend not to slight you, yet truly, my Lord, truly you must jest!
"I have transcended the bounds of the universe, child, life and death is a matter simple for one powerful as I." Dumbledoor laughed a tuttering laugh, "And indeed, young one. Orphan you are no more.”
Before Voldemort could embrace his father deeply and begin to make up for many many years of throwing a ball in the streets, he awoke on the banks of the River of Kabhtal'Ku.
CHAPTER 7
As Voldemort picked himself up and tried to wipe some of the riverside muck off his smooth, bald head, he sensed the presence of another. Sitting on a rock a few feet above him, he saw the face of someone familiar. He saw that black hair and that electric scar which so haunted his dreams. The boy he only hours before rendered into a liquid state sat before him, calmly stroking the greasy hide of the naked Dobby sitting curled on his lap and buzzing softly.
"You-! Foul Daemon who doth bear mein of saint! Daemon who sits upon stone like a carved buddha! You were eviscerated! You were gone! No more! Destroyed! Kaput! You died! I killed you! What shape of spectre appears before me!?" Voldemort cringed back in fear at the ghastly figure.
"Nay, my nemesis-- or might I address you as friend? I am no spectre. Quell thy fear! Just as you, I have returned from the Abyss. Your sin, I forgive it. I take your death as atonement and the deepest of it. I read the despair which lies within the heart of thy soul and all seed of spite within mine is burned well before it has come to sprout or bloom." Spoke Harry. Voldemort let out a short sob, falling before the boy he once murdered. The cathartic feeling of forgiveness and repent was one so alien to him. It touched him deeply to hear such words.
"O! Dearest foe! Kindest fiend! Thy heart must be endless! Boundless as the ocean and just as deep! This wretched soul what kneels before thee is deserved not of absolution! It is deserved not of this kindness you so readily give! My thankfulness goes beyond words, it’s sentiment too profound that expression of which lapses into metaphysics!" Cried Voldemort. Harry lifted the Dobby by the loose skin on its back and threw it from its lap. It scampered into the woods with a gutteral screech. Harry strode forth, laying a kind hand on Voldemort's trembling shoulder.
"My old enemy and new friend, let us put our past quarrel aside us. On this day of our death and revival, I cannot help but feel our fates are bound as one. We are born anew, born as brothers. I look to the skies and in the clouds I read a turbulent future. If, as I sense, our destiny follows a singular path, I fear facing it alone. Nay! Such a thing will be impossible! We have both been remade. For this to be a coincidence, to be purposeless... No, it’s absurd; utterly inconceivable! For what may come, whatever might it be, we must follow our destiny together, as one." Harry extended a hand to Voldemort, who, with little hesitation, took it.
"Yes, dear friend and brother! I will walk this road alongside you with no doubt. Each stride you take, I shall take as well. Each shadow you pass through, I shall pass in step, each patch of sun that blesses your kind brow, I shall pray it blesses mine in turn. If you wish it, I will wade through the very River Styx for you. My faith, brother, I put it entirely in you as I wish you shall with me!"
Thus, their friendship began, solidified as if wrought in iron.
CHAPTER 8
After the two lads shared a hearty embrace, Voldemort returned home. Day began to rise and after the exceptionally long and tiring night he felt thoroughly exhausted. He collapsed on his bed as soon as he got home, too tired even to wash off the muck that clung to his skin, and instantly fell asleep.
That night, many strange dreams passed before the eyes of his mind. He dreamed of a crimson ocean, hissing fiercely as the swells came and went, crashing violently upon the shore. He walked across the fine bone-white sand, icy cold to the touch. The sky was an endless, flat, abyssal black, a black completely devoid of any and all light. As he approached the maroon sea, it became clear that the waves were comprised of blood and thick vicera. Chunks of flesh and long strings of organs floated in the liquid. The aggressive turbulence of the crashing caused the blood to create a thick foam. The line of the tide could clearly be seen where the crimson soaked into the white sand. The nauseating scent of gore permeated all. The heavy, metallic smell of blood and that of the rotting carrion commingled in a somehow profoundly depraved odor.
A massive beast emerged from the ocean. The sheer volume of viscera it displaced caused a deafening noise as the water rushed over its form. The smell of the sea passed across the shore more powerfully than before, the stench of rot and death so intense Voldemort felt as if he would pass out. The creature had smooth, slimy, black skin, covered with irregular pockmarks. On its sides, a myriad of titanic, flat fins waved up and down.
"My friend..." The beast's deep voice reverberated in Voldemort's skull at an unbelievable volume. Simply hearing it speak caused intense pain. He cried out in agony, yet the noise was such that he couldn’t hear the faintest trace of his own shriek. He doubled over and collapsed to his knees; no matter how much he tried to cover his ears, the sound didn't dissipate. "Let us face fate."
Voldemort awoke with a start.
And so Voldemort entered the room and spoke to himself in the most gentle and soft of voices.
"I wish, I wish, upon a fish- that I could kill that Harry Potter.
If that orphan boy I failed to slay
Could cease to live another day,
My dick would grown just a little hotter."
And so, with the grace and the glory of a grand centurion returning to Rome after a long conquest against the Vandals in the northern stretches of the known world, Voldemort presented his (at that moment) pitifully-sized pelvis-attached pimple pod.
And hither this gesture summoned several children, who, drawn like a magnet to the dark wizards wizardly whimsy, attached themselves to his thighs and fused with his body in a fleshy heap, demanding only the most finely crafted of sweets.
Voldemort, with the kind sternness of a Victorian English Governess, refused their demands for candy, warning them of the dangers of cavities. With said warning, he detached tumorous children from his thighs and whisked them to bed.
CHAPTER 2
Upon the eve of all hallows, Voldemort awakened with a fright. He had dreamed of himself and Harry Potter in the most unflattering of positions. The dream began with him, standing amidst a field of marigolds, frolicking as he did when he was a young lad. Suddenly, a large oak appeared from the core of the tiny planet on which he resided. From the leaves of this grand and mighty arbor, large fruits began to rapidly grow, ripen, and subsequently fall. As they hit the ground, the fleshy fruit exploded and forth came a deluge of sickly sweet juices. At the core of each fruit was a single Harry Potter. At the seedling state, each was a fetus, forehead inscribed with that much familiar charmingly trademark lightning scar. As each of the Harries took root in the fertile soil, they grew to maturity within moments, shocking Voldemort. The Harries unfurled their branches, blocking out the sunlight and causing Voldemort's verdant grassy field of childhood innocence to wither.
This dream frighted poor sweet Voldemort, filling him with a sense of oncoming dread. He felt it was an omen. He would meet harry at the Halloween party later that day. He was not excited.
CHAPTER 3
Snow covered the ground in a soft powdery sheet. Voldemort clutched his black cloak tightly around his shoulders to fend off the chill. Underneath, he was dressed to the nines for the Halloween party. Feeling confident on his outfit, he was determined to look better than that dastardly Harry Potter.
He arrived at the Ritz ballroom and shed his snow-speckled coat. He wore a gown of silky satin in pale peach, the hem cut low enough to show off just enough of his ankle to be only just scandalous. Rhinestones sewn into the dress caught the light and the skirt billowed with his movements. He paired his attire with a pair of shimmering flats and hoop earrings of rose gold, underlining both his innocence and flirtatiousness. Voldemort felt the outfit, besides looking stunning on him, reflected his inner self. Furthermore, it complemented his lack of nose.
At the bar, he spotted that Harry Potter. He felt the soul leave his body.
That whorish prat wore a low-cut red dress that shone in the lights, stiletto heels, dangling ruby earrings and a massive necklace--a gift from a lover, no doubt. To top it all off, his gown had a deep slit in the side, showing off his thigh. He, in his crimson gown, appeared to be the living incarnation of the Whore of Babylon: seductive, cruel and beautiful.
Voldemort was enraged.
CHAPTER 4
Voldemort understood instantly what his dream the night before signified. It foreshadowed the spotlight he longed for, that he deserved, would be snatched from his lips by his nemesis. Unwilling to let that Slut Harry Potter have the last laugh, Voldemort took to the bar and got himself a flute of their finest champagne.
He subsequently dashed the drink on Harry, hoping to ruin his dress.
However, unbeknownst to him, Harry Potter had a singular weakness, ethanol dissolved in water at approximately 12.3%, the exact alcohol content of Voldemort's champagne.
Harry began to shriek in ungodly agony only heard before in the very pits of hell. His flesh swiftly started to melt and fall off, slab by slab, puddling up in a visceral puddle on the floor, stinking of burning meat and blood. He fell to his knees, still screaming, his skin already melted through, muscle and bone exposed. For a moment, before he changed state completely into liquid, one could witness his internal organs still functioning in his abdominal cavity as they dissolved.
Everyone stared as the boy in drag died.
Then everybody cheered.
CHAPTER 5
Voldemort hadn't realized his catty action would result in death. He was taken aback entirely. The many attendees of the party, mostly fucklings from the Wizard's Warty School of Witchcraft, began buying him drinks and patting him on the back. The silly little schoolboys wished to shake his hand and take their pictures with him in front of the puddle that was only momentarily before one of their classmates. With his status as a known murderer, somehow he suddenly became so much more popular. People who never looked his way before now focused on him. Even Derek. Suddenly, he became the life of the party, and only at the cost of the death of one of his classmates.
If he'd known popularity was this easy, he'd have killed someone long ago.
However, Voldemort's victory didn't taste as sweet as his fantasies.
In his dreams, he wished to earn the respect and admiration of his peers through legitimate ways, not through exploiting death. Thus, embittered by his own success, Voldemort resolved to cast himself into the freezing fiery river of Kabhtal'Ku where his corpse would be frozen solid before immolated.
So, he did just that.
On all hallow's eve of that year, the deaths of both Harry Potter and Voldemort were mourned throughout the seven cosmos.
CHAPTER 6
Voldemort awoke in a white plane, dressed in pristine stainless scrubs or robes like those of a hospital or nunnery some other such facility. The bright lights disoriented him, but more unusual than the unnatural luminescence of his surroundings was the soft whispering in his mind, a whispering so quiet he couldn't make out a single syllable. He wandered through the void, stumbling. Nothing differentiated the ground he walked on from the atmosphere. As he walked, the whiteness gradually became brighter, emanating from a singular point, drawing in Voldemort. The closer he got, the mumbling in his mind gradually became sharper.
"Voldemort, approach my son." The wizard extended a hand toward the bright light.
"God.... is that you?" He said, voice trembling with awe.
The blinding light gradually dissipated, leaving a figure in silhouette until Voldemort's eyes adjusted, he could make the man out. An elder with a long snowy beard and wise yet kind expression. "No, I am no God. It is I, Dumbledore the Illustrious, Great Wizard of the Winter Kingdom, Decorated Warrior of the Desert People of Makaku."
Voldemort dropped to his knees. This man he faced was revered above God, a man who ascended to the Afterworld before his death. The only Eternal.
"I am not worthy to look upon thee, O Powerful One!" Voldemort groveled at the old wizard's feet.
"Oh, don't speak that way!" The legend alive scorned, "Everyone I meet talks to me like that! Spare me this, avert my eyes that! I’m simply sick of it!" Voldemort glanced up at the old wizard.
"Well... sorry about that, then."
"Oh! don't apologize! I can't stand apologies! If there’s anything worse than a groveling it’s an apology!" Voldemort couldn't help but feel disheartened at the harshness of his hero's critique. "Anyway, my boy, there's more you must learn!"
"Will you teach me?" The young lad asked, eyes sparkling.
"Young fool, you must learn yourself.” Spoke the wizened one. “Yet before you are revived, there is one truth I must impart upon you. You are my son, my one true son.”
"You can revive me?” Spoke Voldemort in awe, “But, my Lord, I have no father, I never did. I intend not to slight you, yet truly, my Lord, truly you must jest!
"I have transcended the bounds of the universe, child, life and death is a matter simple for one powerful as I." Dumbledoor laughed a tuttering laugh, "And indeed, young one. Orphan you are no more.”
Before Voldemort could embrace his father deeply and begin to make up for many many years of throwing a ball in the streets, he awoke on the banks of the River of Kabhtal'Ku.
CHAPTER 7
As Voldemort picked himself up and tried to wipe some of the riverside muck off his smooth, bald head, he sensed the presence of another. Sitting on a rock a few feet above him, he saw the face of someone familiar. He saw that black hair and that electric scar which so haunted his dreams. The boy he only hours before rendered into a liquid state sat before him, calmly stroking the greasy hide of the naked Dobby sitting curled on his lap and buzzing softly.
"You-! Foul Daemon who doth bear mein of saint! Daemon who sits upon stone like a carved buddha! You were eviscerated! You were gone! No more! Destroyed! Kaput! You died! I killed you! What shape of spectre appears before me!?" Voldemort cringed back in fear at the ghastly figure.
"Nay, my nemesis-- or might I address you as friend? I am no spectre. Quell thy fear! Just as you, I have returned from the Abyss. Your sin, I forgive it. I take your death as atonement and the deepest of it. I read the despair which lies within the heart of thy soul and all seed of spite within mine is burned well before it has come to sprout or bloom." Spoke Harry. Voldemort let out a short sob, falling before the boy he once murdered. The cathartic feeling of forgiveness and repent was one so alien to him. It touched him deeply to hear such words.
"O! Dearest foe! Kindest fiend! Thy heart must be endless! Boundless as the ocean and just as deep! This wretched soul what kneels before thee is deserved not of absolution! It is deserved not of this kindness you so readily give! My thankfulness goes beyond words, it’s sentiment too profound that expression of which lapses into metaphysics!" Cried Voldemort. Harry lifted the Dobby by the loose skin on its back and threw it from its lap. It scampered into the woods with a gutteral screech. Harry strode forth, laying a kind hand on Voldemort's trembling shoulder.
"My old enemy and new friend, let us put our past quarrel aside us. On this day of our death and revival, I cannot help but feel our fates are bound as one. We are born anew, born as brothers. I look to the skies and in the clouds I read a turbulent future. If, as I sense, our destiny follows a singular path, I fear facing it alone. Nay! Such a thing will be impossible! We have both been remade. For this to be a coincidence, to be purposeless... No, it’s absurd; utterly inconceivable! For what may come, whatever might it be, we must follow our destiny together, as one." Harry extended a hand to Voldemort, who, with little hesitation, took it.
"Yes, dear friend and brother! I will walk this road alongside you with no doubt. Each stride you take, I shall take as well. Each shadow you pass through, I shall pass in step, each patch of sun that blesses your kind brow, I shall pray it blesses mine in turn. If you wish it, I will wade through the very River Styx for you. My faith, brother, I put it entirely in you as I wish you shall with me!"
Thus, their friendship began, solidified as if wrought in iron.
CHAPTER 8
After the two lads shared a hearty embrace, Voldemort returned home. Day began to rise and after the exceptionally long and tiring night he felt thoroughly exhausted. He collapsed on his bed as soon as he got home, too tired even to wash off the muck that clung to his skin, and instantly fell asleep.
That night, many strange dreams passed before the eyes of his mind. He dreamed of a crimson ocean, hissing fiercely as the swells came and went, crashing violently upon the shore. He walked across the fine bone-white sand, icy cold to the touch. The sky was an endless, flat, abyssal black, a black completely devoid of any and all light. As he approached the maroon sea, it became clear that the waves were comprised of blood and thick vicera. Chunks of flesh and long strings of organs floated in the liquid. The aggressive turbulence of the crashing caused the blood to create a thick foam. The line of the tide could clearly be seen where the crimson soaked into the white sand. The nauseating scent of gore permeated all. The heavy, metallic smell of blood and that of the rotting carrion commingled in a somehow profoundly depraved odor.
A massive beast emerged from the ocean. The sheer volume of viscera it displaced caused a deafening noise as the water rushed over its form. The smell of the sea passed across the shore more powerfully than before, the stench of rot and death so intense Voldemort felt as if he would pass out. The creature had smooth, slimy, black skin, covered with irregular pockmarks. On its sides, a myriad of titanic, flat fins waved up and down.
"My friend..." The beast's deep voice reverberated in Voldemort's skull at an unbelievable volume. Simply hearing it speak caused intense pain. He cried out in agony, yet the noise was such that he couldn’t hear the faintest trace of his own shriek. He doubled over and collapsed to his knees; no matter how much he tried to cover his ears, the sound didn't dissipate. "Let us face fate."
Voldemort awoke with a start.
