A/N: This was written for the weekly Dictionary Drabbles challenge on the Beloved Enemies mailing list.
The theme word for this piece was "rudiment," meaning "something unformed or undeveloped."
It is well past midnight when the suffocating weight of my thoughts finally drives me out of my bed.
I wish I had never touched him. I should have known it would lead to this.
His room is dark and still, so quiet the whisper of his breathing roars in my ears. The fire has long since died to a few glowing embers, and the cool air rushes past me as I step through the doorway, wrapping long tendrils around my fevered skin.
I had been curious about him for years, ever since he was an infant and vanquished my Lord. When I saw him in the bookshop that morning, I was unable to resist the urge to pull him close and examine the mark my Master's last ill-fated act had left upon his forehead.
"Lumos," I murmur, holding my wand above my head as I cross the room to his bedside. He is a deep sleeper and there is no need for stealth, but force of habit impels me to move cautiously so he does not sense my approach.
I could feel it the instant my thumb brushed across the raised, white scar -- power. Vast, untapped power radiating from him so strongly that even that simple touch stirred my long dormant Mark to life. It was at the most rudimentary level, of course, crude and unformed, but there was no doubt that the potential for greatness was within him.
He does not stir when I sit on the edge of his bed, tucking my wand into a crack in the carving on the headboard. The light throws his handsome face into sharp relief against the surrounding darkness, casting shadows on the pillowcase.
It was electrifying. Even after he pulled away I could feel his power tugging at me, swirling through my body like a cyclone, ravaging me like a wild beast. My head buzzed madly for days afterwards.
Carefully, I peel back the duvet to reveal his nude body, pale and beautiful against the dark sheets.
All my life I have coveted power, and here, in this unworthy child, was more power than I could ever hope to know. I burned for it. I ached to shape it and manipulate it, to bleed it from him and drown in it myself.
I kneel on the bed between his knees, wrapping his limp legs around my waist. Another softly-spoken spell to lubricate my aching erection and I position myself at the tight entrance to his body.
It was torture knowing it was out there and I could never have it.
I thrust my hips forward sharply, seeking relief from my frustration in the only way I know how. His eyes fly open, his back arching in surprise as he is ripped from deep slumber and plunged into intense pain. His glazed eyes focus on me as he begins struggling weakly, his limbs still heavy with sleep.
"No, Father," he moans, pushing feebly against my chest as I stab into him. "Not again... Please..."
Yes, that's it, Harry. Beg me. Beg me so I can have some tiny measure of control over what will never be mine.
A small voice in my head screams that this isn't right, this isn't Harry Potter writhing beneath me, but it is easily quieted. I jerk my wand from its perch in the headboard and use it to cut a bloody lightning bolt on my son's forehead.
There. Now the illusion is complete. And I know that when I am finished, my "Harry" will lie sobbing and broken, punished once more for the crime of keeping me from what I want most in all the world.