Warning: Very discreet mature themes. PWP.
Harry sometimes wondered whether a stronger, better person would've resisted Tom's advances, that someone else would resist the lure of power and refuse to be caught up in this endless web of lies, dominance and deceit that he was trapped in. Usually, the little voice inside his head which had yet to fall prey to the evil inside of him argued that Harry is, or was a strong, good person. Sometimes, if Harry is feeling particularly pitiful, he will believe the voice and sometimes he will scoff at the voice's naivety. If Harry was so good, so great then why had he bowed at Tom's feet, like another one of his snivelling servants, why he had found solace in the arms of a murderer – whilst he left the rest of the world to burn?
When he's lying in bed at night, scratched, bruised and burning with shame, he wonders whether he made the right choice. Did he do the right thing when he abandoned the light – when they proved to be as twisted and evil as the side they were fighting? He thinks about this at night, debating whether being alive is worth it when you've lost everything that you ever cared for. Occasionally, when Tom is being kinder than usual, and not forcing him to submit to whatever sick fantasy he wishes to try next, he remembers that he cares about Tom – to some extent. The man may be a psychopath, but he saved Harry, he didn't leave him to suffer at the hands of Muggles, unlike the Dumbledore; Harry admires Tom, he does not fanatically worship him, and he would not risk his own life for Tom's, not after everything he'd done in the past, but he does appreciate what Tom has done for him. After everything Tom has allowed him to do.
Blood…everywhere, on the walls, in his hair, on his hands, dripping into his eyes, into his mouth. Choking him, forcing itself into his lungs and pushing the air out. He can't breathe…can't see, can't think...is this what death feels like? He wonders inside his head, as his bound hands pull uselessly in their restraints. There are black spots in his eye-line now, everything is fading and blurring out of focus. He falls to his knees; the blood is everywhere now, filling his eyes, his mouth, his nose, his ears. He tries to scream, but the blood just bubbles in his agape mouth. He's choking, coughing, oh why won't anyone help him? What did he do to deserve this, wasn't he good, didn't he behave like the perfect poster boy for this stupid war? HELP ME! He screams silently, tears forcing themselves out of his eyes, turning the blood a watery pink.
Help me…he whimpers…please anyone, stop it, stop it please. He tries breathing, but the blood is still there….and he's drowning, alive and alone.
And then there is Tom….and he knows he is saved.
It was gradual, Harry fought, oh how he fought against the Dark Lord, but eventually he succumbed to the older man, allowing him to control Harry for the puppet he was. He watched calmly as his friends were slaughtered, his shining green eyes now blank and unseeing; he flinched when they screamed at him, flinched when Tom placed as hand on his shoulder and steered him away from the bloody remains of brave Gryffindor's. He screamed when trapped him on the bed, but quietened when he realised that no one was coming to help him; months later and he learns to enjoy what Tom inflicts on him. Then he learns that it can be enjoyable to force on other people, or just take them if they are willing.
Slowly his soul is twisted and cracked, and he gets closer and closer to breaking point. Long gone is the innocent 11 year old who gazed up at Hagrid in revere, he has now been replaced by a hardened machine, second to Voldemort himself, who judges who lives and who dies with cold eyes. Here to stay is the Harry Potter who is wrong, different dark. The Harry who gets fucked into the mattress by the corporeal memory of the Dark Lord; the one who tortures Pure-Bloods and Muggle-Born's alike, and then laughs and cries when he sits in a pool of their blood, the one who will curse your fingernails off if you so much as look at him in the wrong way. Gone are the green eyes and here to stay are the scarlet ones that reflect no mercy, no sympathy for his victims.
Sometimes, when Harry looks at Tom, it feels like he is looking at his reflection, and sometimes when he looks at his own reflection he is Tom. Funny that. He has become darkness incarnate, and once upon a time he was a beacon of light. The irony isn't lost on him, but he finds bitter amusement in the contrast.
Things remain the same, he remains Tom's and Tom keeps him at his side, for both relieving stress but also to remind the both of them of what they have both lost and gained in the years since the war begun. Harry knows he is just a trophy to Tom, but he indulges him sometimes and pretends there's something like love behind those maddened eyes, instead of a lust for power and a lust for lost innocence.
Because that's all Harry is…the boy who lost his innocence.
He is not the Chosen One.
The Golden Boy.
He is nothing.
He is not strong, or brave, nor will he ever be.
He's Harry Potter – and he is a casualty of war.
He is the boy who was forced to grow up.
Hmmm…I dislike this, it is very pointless and makes little sense. But I'm in a rambly mood, and so I have posted.