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Harry watched the snake disappear into the undergrowth at the foot of the tower. Gnarled vines wound up the old, worn stones that made up the tower. They also looked a bit like snakes. Harry crept closer, leaves and twigs crunching and snapping under his boots. There was no door that he could see, only one singular window near the top of the intimidating structure.
This had to be it. Harry wandered around the base of the tower, searching for a way in, but there was nothing, only the smooth stack of stones that made up the wall. But the vines that crawled upwards felt thick and sturdy under his hand, and he wondered if they would be enough to hold his weight.
Only one way to find out.
Harry divested himself of his bag, tucked his dagger into his boot, and took one of the heavier vines in hand. Thinner ropes than this had supported his weight before. A more pressing concern was the sheer height that he would have to scale to arrive at his destination.
Planting one foot firmly against the stone wall of the tower, Harry began to climb.
He was halfway up when his arms kicked up a protest. He had already switched vines twice, and was contemplating his next move when his foot slipped and sent him colliding into the wall.
His body screamed in protest, hands gripping the vine for dear life as dangled there, breathing heavily, heart hammering in his chest.
Slowly, Harry managed to plant his feet back against the stone and haul himself into a safer position.
As he squinted into the darkness, trying to reorient himself, he noticed that the darkness was not so dark anymore.
A light had gone on in the window.
Harry swallowed. Instinct urged him to call out, to ask if someone was there. But the words he wished to say were dry and heavy on his tongue, and the shadows cast by the light seemed to dance around him like mischievous fairies.
Whatever held his tongue, it did not hold him from resuming his climb. Harry hauled himself up the rest of the way despite his protesting muscles, and when he reached the window, he noted that the light came from a candle placed on a table just below the window sill.
The room before him was still dark, however, and so he finally steeled his courage to call out a greeting.
“Hello?” he spoke into the seemingly-empty room. “Princess?”
A second candle flickered on, revealing the shape of a man standing a few paces away. He wore a hooded cloak that cast most of his face in shadow.
“No princess,” said the man, his voice a deep rumble in the darkness, “only myself.”
“Oh,” Harry said. He crawled through the window and hopped lightly onto the table, careful not to disturb the candle on it. “I’m looking for a princess. Princess Ginevra.”
“And who are you?” asked the man. He did not move from where he stood, but his eyes glittered brightly in the flickering candlelight, shades of red and orange dancing in the irises.
“My name is Harry,” said Harry. He extended a hand to the man, offering a handshake. “I’m part of a group that has been searching through the surrounding woods for her tower. She was taken by a dark witch.”
The man did not accept his handshake but instead stepped forward, blocking the candle that had offered his silhouette some visibility.
“There is no princess here,” the man said thoughtfully. “But I am very happy to see you, Harry.”
Harry glanced around the dark room. He could barely make out anything, but he thought he was standing next to a plain four-poster bed and a small shelf full of books.
“Only those with the purest of souls may venture into this tower,” the man added, his voice so low it was almost a croon. He stepped closer still, and as he did so his hand rose—pale enough and thin enough that it appeared skeletal in the darkness—to caress the side of Harry’s face. “You have a pure soul and a pure heart.” His hand trailed down and came to a rest over Harry’s heart, which quickened its beats in response.
Harry did not know what to say to that. A flush had blossomed on his cheek where the man had touched him, and he was glad that he had braved the height of the tower to come inside. But since the man seemed to be waiting for his response, Harry took a slow breath to steady his racing heart and replied, “How did you… How did you end up here?”
The hand over his heart fell away. The man sighed, and the sound of his disappointment made Harry’s chest tighten.
“Have you ever wondered about those who were not princesses? Those countless, nameless others who remained in their towers,” the man murmured, “without princes, or knights, or village boys to save them from their fates?”
Harry had not. In hindsight, this revelation was upsetting. How many towers like this one existed all over the world, filled with those who had no others to care for them?
“I have been trapped in this tower for many years,” the man continued. “And in all that time, you are the first to visit me.”
“I’m sorry,” Harry said. He could not imagine staying in this lonely tower for years and years, withering away in the darkness. “How—how do we get you out?” He was eager to help, to prove that his heart and soul were as pure as the man had named them to be.
The man smiled, white teeth flashing for the briefest moment. “With your help, anything is possible.” He leant forward far enough that the lower half of his face fell into the light, unshadowed by the hood of his cloak. The line of the man’s jaw was as pale as his hand, and very handsome. “Tell me, Harry, what is the most powerful magic in the world?”
“Love,” Harry said, after a moment’s hesitation. It was the magic touted by all the best sorcerers in the land, including Albus Dumbledore himself.
“Precisely,” said the man. His smile was soft, a generous compliment to the low, soothing tone of his voice. “And so where the most potent potions and spells have failed to free me, your heart may succeed.”
His hand extended a second time, cupping Harry’s cheek with a smooth, cool palm. A thumb brushed over Harry’s lower lip, sharp nail scratching lightly at the plump of it, and he shivered in response at the stimulation, his heart fluttering wildly.
“Would you kiss me,” murmured the man, “if it meant my freedom? Would you give me your heart, if it could save me?”
Harry had been smitten so few times in his life, and none had ever compared to this. He thought that if this man kissed him, he might die. But if they did not kiss, he would die all the same, but in an entirely different way.
To confess this seemed like a bad idea—as though he was some desperate, love-starved fool.
Before he could lose his nerve, Harry reached up and drew the hood off the man’s head. He had a great desire to see the man’s face, to know who had bewitched him so.
A shock of white greeted him. Skin the colour of bone, patterned with faint scales and paler than the hand that cradled his face. Deep crimson eyes that gleamed brighter than the candlelight behind him.
The hand against Harry’s cheek went still, and Harry understood. Reactions to such a face—abnormal, snake-like—would be driven by fear.
But Harry was not afraid, and his heart was pure. His heart, which swelled with empathy for the man sentenced to this tower.
Carefully, Harry pressed the tips of his fingers to the man’s cheekbone. He trailed them along the non-existent hairline, across the hairless brow, down the space where a nose ought to have been.
The man was quiet, watching him through guarded eyes. “The stories say,” he remarked in a soft voice, “that none could ever love a beast.”
Those words sparked such pain in Harry’s heart. He could not bear it; he impulsively swayed forward and clumsily pressed their lips together, hopeful that the man’s words could be proven wrong.
There was a surprised pause, and then the stranger responded in kind, kissing him back.
Harry shivered as an arm slipped around his waist. The lips that met his own were shockingly cold. Still, the kiss deepened, slowly but surely, until Harry felt as though he was being devoured by it.
His spine curved, moulding against the hold that cradled him, and Harry was inexplicably reminded of stories in which maidens had swooned while under the thrall of similar embraces. His head spun alongside the room, and there was a steady pressure of warmth surrounding him, a warmth separate from the cool mouth pressed to his own.
Though Harry was dizzy, he did not pull away. He relaxed further when gentle fingers slipped into his hair, tracing down to the nape of his neck.
Harry’s eyes fluttered shut as he surrendered to the sensations. The temperature rose, and when he finally retreated for air, the gaze that met his own remained as red and bloody as before.
This man was not a prince cursed with the face of a monster—he was just a man with a strange face, and Harry found that he did not mind it.
Harry placed his palm fleetingly against the man’s cold, pale cheek, brushing his fingers over the fascinating texture of scales. He hoped his kiss had been enough.
“Do you think it worked—sir?” Harry asked, his voice faltering towards the end. He had no name for this stranger, yet he felt an intoxicating connection between them.
“You may call me Voldemort, sweet one,” said the man, Voldemort, and his smile was a crescent of sharp teeth as he took Harry by the hand and squeezed tight. Then his red eyes slid to the open window, which was lit by moonlight, and the smile widened further as he led Harry over to it.
The window was large enough for the both of them to sit on the sill, hands entwined. From what Harry could make out in the near darkness, the ground seemed very far away. He swallowed anxiously and glanced back at his companion.
“I suppose we shall find out,” Voldemort said idly. With his face lifted to the brilliant moon, he looked like a marble statue. He turned to Harry, his smile softer than before, but still with that edge of something more, something a bit dangerous. “Do you trust me?”
“Yes,” Harry breathed. He would not look at the ground anymore—why would he, when those ruby eyes regarded him with such glittering delight?
Voldemort’s arms encircled his waist, pulling him close. “Hold tight,” Voldemort whispered into his ear, his voice a low hiss.
And then, without warning, Voldemort launched them both from the tower and into the inky night beyond.
END.
