Fantasies involving silk cool pillows over smiling faces spin through his head followed by worse. A little head desperately trying to break through the inches of water above it. A tiny body floating out to sea eyeless and still. A tiny hand gone ivory and blue in the slowly falling snow. But steady hands continue to tend the little black-eyed boy with his curly brown hair and easy two-tooth grin. A dull ache in his teeth has him faking a smile for the little bastard as the wards perform their hourly check. Oh how He'd love to kill this little thing he birthed. This squirming little parasite he carried ten months totally aware because they couldn't risk the child's mind. No way to bind him, no potions to calm him just his own mind writhing against it's self as ulcers of self-loathing smear it in pus and blood.
For a moment he wonders how long they argued around themselves about this. How long it took them to talk themselves into letting him surface for however long. Probably no time at all considering how much they like to see him suffer. Briefly his long, elegant hands tighten on buttermilk soft flesh. "I married Potter, I let him fuck me, and then I had you." But worse I did it all under the influence of a brat less then half my age. 'Though more then thrice my strength.' And the baby coos all roses and cream its neck just so easy to snap. It's precious little skull all too easy to part. "I really do hate you." The child kicks as though he's just coo'd a vow of undying love. But then perhaps he has done so before while under Potter's damnable influence.
But this is the truth now. He hates this child and its father no matter how… How what? How he sometimes longs to be filled by his 'husband's' touch. How the long static nights of carrying this child were ones of quiet joy. No, he hates all of this, especially the child. Yes, he wants to kill it - perhaps with fire. And the world burns down as dragon eyes raked him bloody, clawed hands around his pathetically thin waist. The floor cold and him sore but open for the taking. The pain and the need to be gone blending into the need to escape to his own private sanctuary. Nose dripping with blood he stares at the stain slowly growing on his cream-colored polo shirt. For a long moment he can't find himself much less his train of thought.
Then it comes to him with a rush. Forget about killing this insipid little bastard instead he should be pondering how to kill himself. Pills perhaps? He has them though with all the charms it's rather a moot point. He's tried the bath before, tried to hang himself, and discovered there are no cleaning solutions in this house. Trying not to yield to the growing panic he almost doesn't hear the monster come in. He wants to scream as the arms come 'round his waist. Has to force a smile on his face at the throaty whisper in his ear. What he wouldn't give right now for his wand. What he wouldn't give to have chosen the right side. The child smiles at them reaching out to grasps his proffered finger. It gurgles as though to speak. What will become of him then when this child can cheerfully repeat every hateful thing he says? "Harry how about a trip? A day at the beach? I'd loved to see the ocean."