for: a witch
Series: Harry Potter
Pairing: Voldemort/Harry
Request: Voldemort/Harry
Word Count: 465
Note:
sorry this is kinda late. I had an idea for it, and then that became
something larger...and now is turning into a HUGE project, which won't
be released for a while yet. I'm going to FINISH it first.
The
Voldemort/Harry is very light in this, and is more of something to come
than is now (although you could say that's why Harry isn't dead yet).
anyways, on with the fic!
His head hurt from the drugs, but that was okay. A lot of things hurt now. Not that they hadn't hurt before, but before it'd hurt in a different way. Before it was emotional – it was watching his friends return one by one, hurt and shattered by the war. Before it was the death of Sirius, and the death of Dumbledore.
Mooney's death had been the last.
He'd surrendered to Voldemort, in exchange for his friends' lives.
At first, it was the little things. They'd make him go for days without food, lock him in a cell and strip him of his clothes. Whip him, beat him, kick him – whatever they could think of.
It wasn't so bad then. He'd had similar treatment at the Dursley's. Not as bad, perhaps, since they'd let him use the bathroom – they hadn't wanted "that stink" in their cupboard – and let him keep his clothes, but similar, all the same. It was just another form of "Harry Hunting", but this time Harry couldn't run.
Then things got worse. They added spells to the mix of muggle beating, and tortured him in ways the Dursleys never would have thought of. They made him scream, they made him beg, and they made him cry.
He didn't die, though. He was sick and bleeding and weak, but he wasn't dead.
Voldemort had sneered at him, the last he'd seen him. This time, Harry looked a little better – his skin was clean of blood, except from the few wounds that wouldn't stop, and his bruises were faded on his front, if not his back.
They were alone. Harry knew that Voldemort intended to kill him – it was the end to the torture that he knew was coming, but still had trouble accepting. He didn't want to die.
"Tell me, Harry Potter, why I should not kill you," Voldemort commanded.
Harry knew that whatever he answered would be wrong – that gleam in Voldemort's eyes promised death, an end to the torture and an end to life – but he knew he needed to try.
"Because – " he coughed, grabbing at his chest though it hurt, and the bent position pulled at the whip marks across his back. "Because of all the things you've done to me, you have not done the worst," he finally said, wheezing, as he caught his breath.
"And what is that?"
Harry coughed, spitting out blood. "You haven't loved me, and then left me."
Voldemort didn't kill him.
Harry's consciousness faded in and out with the drugs that kept him docile – kept him still. He knew there were others handling him, but he didn't care much about it anymore. He knew the end was coming, but he didn't know when or how – he could only hope that it was not soon.