Taboo

You're eleven years old, home from Hogwarts for the Holidays and as your parents throw one of their social events downstairs, you sneak into their bedroom. You know you're not supposed to be there, which is exactly why you went. Why you snuck over the balcony, trying hard to avoid the places of the ancient wooden floor that creak. You step through those forbidden doors and gasp in pleasure, the muscles in your buttocks clenching slightly as electric butterflies shoot through your belly.

You trace your small fingers over your mother's bedside table and wrap them around a small, ornate bottle of perfume.

"Boudoir," the label reads.

You open it and whisk its contents around before you sniff the air above it, just like your father does with a glass of wine. It's not her usual scent...you don't know this smell, but it's dangerously intoxicating. The butterflies race up to your chest now and an unfamiliar warmth spreads through your underbelly. You let a few drops of the undoubtedly priceless liquid fall onto your pale wrist. It's thick like oil and absorbs straight into your skin. Your face heats up, as do your ears and you kind of feel the slight buzz you get when father lets you have a sip of his drink.

You don't know why, but you hold on to the bottle as you go to your father's side of the bed. You pause, listening for dreaded footsteps that could signal your discovery. No sound in the air but silence. As you stand before his chest of drawers, you take a deep breath. The butterflies shoot right back down to your belly and your lungs seem to ache for air as your throat goes dry. Tingling sensations spread through your shaking little hands as they reach for the top drawer. For a moment, the world stands still, as does your heart. Then the wood slowly opens, revealing a drawer full of white silk. Your father's underpants. This is the first time you see them, and probably the last. You let your alabaster fingers slide over the soft ivory of the silk as you unfold one of them. A little voice in your head tells you to put them back in the drawer, but something else inside you doesn't want to. You slip out of your old fashioned children's nightgown and stand naked for a while in this realm of the taboo. Again you clench your buttocks slightly, savoring the pleasuring feeling it gives. Then you step into the silk, letting it inch slowly over your muscular young legs, pulling them up all the way. They are too big for you, but as soon as you let go of the waistband, the garment adjusts.

So you crouch down and fold your nightgown, but something catches your eye. There's something stuck to the underside of the bed...a book. You reach for it determinedly and undo the rough leather straps that hold it in it's hiding spot. Trembling fingers slide over it's tattered leather bound cover. There's a name on the side...you don not recognize it. Slowly you open the ancient volume and flip through it. Disappointment hits you. The pages are blank. Staring at the empty notebook, you try to put the perfume bottle away, but you're distracted so instead you break it by knocking it against the bedside table. The oily substance seeps into your skin as blood flows freely from a glass wound. Instinctually, you retract your hand, spilling your pure blood all over the notebook you're holding. You panic...your parents will surely know you've been snooping. You can't clean this mess all by yourself. You let out a cry of disappointment, knowing the punishment you'll receive. Still your blood flows freely out of the wound and onto the book. THE BOOK! OH SHIT! Have to pull yourself together before you ruin it completely! Whatever it is, it must be important, hidden away in a place that no one but your parents enters. You look at it and to your surprise every gush of red liquid gets absorbed right into those ominous empty pages. Something inside you tells you this isn't good. You grew up in the world of magic...you know this could be dangerous, but you're all about the taboo. Why else are you there in your parent's inner sanctum?

So you do not stop the bleeding. You watch the drops from every flow sink in and get absorbed. Finally, when you begin to feel light headed, you grab another silk undergarment and wrap it tightly around the wound.

The pages in front of you have started to move, but you don't quite see it yet. You're preoccupied with the makeshift bandage and only catch a glimpse and by then, it's too late. Words appear in front of you and as your breath once more becomes stocked, you find yourself reading, fingering the old paper.

Before you know it, the world around you starts to spin. Further and further into the vortex you fall, knowing full well where you are going. Into the unknown, into the book.

The world doesn't seem quite right. Colors have faded to black and white, like archaic photographs. You're in a room and you're not alone. In front of you sits a young man dressed in a black suit, perhaps five or six years your senior. He sits cross legged, like your great uncle Roderick does at parties, and he's smoking a cigarette. Your mouth falls open. You want to speak, but no sound escapes your timid larynx.

The dark haired boy before you is looking at you and you can't stop wondering if he sees you as well as you see him. There's something about the way he smokes that you find enticing. He blows little ringlets and as he does his lips pout forward. There's a glint in his deep blue eyes. It speaks to you.

"Yes, I can see you," it says.

The figure before you takes another drag of his white tipped cigarette and shifts in the leather armchair that seats him.

"Who are you?" a silky voice asks.

You look behind you, then side to side, causing the young man to chuckle. The sound makes you warm inside.

"Yes, I'm talking to you, little one. There's nobody else here."

The young man gestures around the room.

And so you collect your nerve, raise you head up high and display your Malfoy Pride, even though you're dressed only in your father's white boxer shorts.

"Draco Malfoy," you answer him with as much faked courage you can muster.

The boy smirks and slides up from his chair most snakelike. He flicks his cigarette to the side, but vanishes it with his wand before it hits the ground. He approaches and smiles with every step.

"Hello Draco. My name is Tom Riddle," he says.

Your mind tells you to run, but you're nailed to the spot like Jesus to his cross. Your breath grows heavier as the young man walks around you. With the stealth of a wolf and the speed of a cheetah he leans in. His left hand on your back as his nose touches the skin of your neck with feather like softness. He inhales deeply, closing his eyes for a moment.

"You smell nice, Draco."

He turns to stand in front of you now. His right hand slides over your stomach to meet his left that's already on your back. He smiles down on you, exposing a row of pleasant white teeth. Something pulsates through you. Heat and tantalizing tingles. His hands squeeze your sides before one of them snakes up to your neck. His face moves closer and you stop breathing completely. Lost in his deep blue eyes. His lips are mere centimeters from yours and you feel the slight breeze of his breath against them.

"How old are you?" he asks.

You start to tremble, feeling yourself melt into these foreign arms that hold you. Why? Why are you letting this happen?

"Eleven," you say in a mere whisper.

Tom leans closer still and his lips brush lightly against your own. For a millisecond he pouts them just like he does when blowing rings of smoke and you feel a magnificent sensation of pressure against your mouth. Then he pulls back and smiles more darkly than before.

"Still a bit young."

He backs away.

"I'll see you in a few years, Draco."

He says it with such certainty. You don't know what to think.

A sharp, familiar pain in your necks jerks you back. You know this feeling. Your father has caught you and he's pulling you out of this book, this memory...whatever it is. The room in front of you is fading, but you can't keep your eyes off this young man who smiles at you until he fades completely and you are in your parent's bedroom once more.

Your father shakes you in anger.

"You stupid boy! Do you realize what kind of danger you put yourself in?" he says as he shakes the book in front of your face.

A part of you knows. You felt the danger of that boy. Felt it permeate you to your very core. You saw the danger in his eyes, yet the flames inside you grew higher.

Your father tosses the book aside and drags you out of the room. Before the two of you reach the door, you look over your shoulder at the discarded leather-bound book and a part of you hopes that Tom was right. That you will see him again.