I'm Not An Addict

~~~~Chapter 1: Moonlight~~~~

///It's not a habit, it's cool, I feel alive///

I'm not an addict. It's more of a habit, really. I don't crave flames; I don't pine for the harsh caress of fists on flesh. I don't long for a time when I will break through the stone, to find the fire below. I don't crave a rage only I can bring forth. A passion for me and only me. I don't want it.

But it's a habit really. The words mean nothing but a look, a stare, an empty gaze focused on me. Eyes too piercing for comfort, too hard for gentleness. I've heard that the youngest Weasley, Ginny, no longer harbors her obsession for the statue of a hero. I suppose he's grown too cold, too alone, spending too much time in the quiet reflection of his head.

Is it quiet? Or does he hear screams inside. Does he dream of all their deaths? Deaths that will never come because he's already saved them all. But still, would he hear them, see them? Can he hear Voldemort, still, inside his head, taunting, mocking.

I was there, there when Voldemort broke the Golden Boy. Broke him and shaped him anew. Voldemort was stupid. He created a monster to rival himself. But not in cruelty. In coldness, hatred. When he walks through the hallways I can almost smell the fear. They fear him and I feel like laughing. And I can only feel regret that I stood and watched as he screamed in agony. As he struggled to hold on to his sanity through each Crucio, each whip, each cut. Magical torture could never be enough, not for my Father. He enjoyed the baser pleasures of pain, wanting to personally inflict each moment of terrorhatredpainagonybleedingcryingdyinginside. And maybe I can't blame him, I enjoyed it just the same as I did it to him. My Father. My master for so long. The keeper of my soul, only released upon his last hitched breath, staring into my eyes, bitter with betrayal, but not surprise. Never surprise. He knew as I knew that I was only what he had created. But he never paid enough attention, he never knew Mother like I did. Her loathing for him surpasses my own. And she taught me, teaches me. She didn't want another Lucius. Another Voldemort junkie. And I listened. I listened well. And I learned. I turned against Father in a way that Mother was never allowed. Revenge did not taste sweet, it tasted like bile; like pain and bitterness; like hate building for eternity, willing its way out. I haven't erupted. I won't. I'll hold it in. Like Potter. Harry.

Potter held together for a few months, a feat unimaginable at the feet of Voldemort. They hadn't expect him to last. But I knew. I sometimes think that he was born just for that. For the world, the bearer of pain and horror that no one wanted to think about. He was born to save them. But who would save him?

He should have been born to save me. But he wasn't. I think it's reversed. I'm here to save him before he drowns. Before he loses everything. What does it take to save a fallen hero? What does it take to break through it all. Would it be pain? Or would it be pleasure? Yelling, screaming or whispered words?

I've always made plans, lists, sometimes even charts before I've done anything. Everything is calculated, practiced, crucial. But I feel now that I could plan for decades, on how to bring him back, but it wouldn't help. He's unpredictable, unplannable. And for the first time I'm going to just do something. I'm going to find him, preferably alone, and I'm going to talk to him. About what, I don't know. But he's going to listen, and he's going to be the old Potter again. He'll insult me, glare at me in hatred, not emptiness. Anything but that flat look.

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I followed him from the Great Hall. He sat with the other two of his Trio. They always sit on either side of him, protecting him from everyone else. They talk to him and watch him, concern plain on their faces. He stares at his meal, his entire face blank. He acknowledges them only when they grow flustered with his lack of response. The small acknowledgement to their existence set them at ease, they haven't lost him yet. Yet.

He left early, without them. He waved away their offers to follow. They watched him leave before turning to each other. Their pain for him was palpable. I could feel it across the room. If I'm to succeed, how they'll thank me, or how deeply they'll loathe me.

He doesn't go to Gryffindor Tower. I follow him through corridors and doors that I'm unfamiliar with. They lead to a secluded balcony, a magical garden that overlooks the lake. It's dark, but the moon is near full and the details come into focus. It's quite breathtaking. The balcony is carpeted with rich grass and beds of flowers. Vines and trees keep the outside world out. I can see the appeal of such a place. He walks to the edge of the balcony and leans forward, lifting his face to the pale light.

"It reminds me of you." I start when he speaks. His voice is soft, softer than I have ever heard it. Perhaps he could sense my presence as I could sense his.

///Watch me as I'm going down. Free me, see me. Look at me, I'm falling and I'm falling///

"What does?" I walk carefully closer to him. I don't want to perturb this moment; to break the spell the garden has seemingly cast.

"The moonlight...your skin....nearly the same shade. Don't you think?" He turns towards me and leans back against the rail. His eyes never leave my face. I can feel my heart inside my ribcage, pounding. It's nearly painful, but it's ecstasy just to hear him speak, to have him compare me to the pale light.

///I'm in heaven, I'm a god. I'm everywhere, I feel so hot///