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Voldemort gripped Harry Potter's neck, hand shoved in just the right place to cut off the boy's ability to breathe. It wasn't as satisfying as he thought it would be. Under his fingers, the boy's skin is bruising. On the boy's face, his skin is changing colors as seconds tick with less and less air. The original struggle, kicking and grunting and desperate punching, had simmered to limpness and weakness, desperate tugging at his fingers as though it could relinquish his grip. Altogether, it should be a very satisfying experience.
But it wasn't.
He frowned and let go. The boy crumpled to the ground like a thin sheet of parchment, laid out on the dirt, shuddering and gasping for air. Voldemort was surprised the boy hadn't gone unconscious. Instead, he was curling in onto himself and trying to recover. Eyeing the marks on the boy's neck in the shape of his fingers, his red face and wide, brilliantly green eyes, Voldemort felt that tingling sanctification he had been waiting for. Odd. He had assumed he'd achieve it through killing the boy, but perhaps...Perhaps he needed more.
The Dark Lord glanced towards Pettigrew and dismissed him with a flick of his hand. The coward shrunk down to a rat and scuttled away, leaving the graveyard. He waited until he sensed Pettigrew was at a suitable distance.
"Stand." He ordered the boy.
Harry Potter rolled over from his stomach to his back, staring up at the Dark Lord. "I can't." He said. His voice was raspy. Voldemort decided he liked how it sounded, thought he'd like it more if the boy had lost his voice from screaming instead of lack of air. There was a strange twinge of pity in his gut, and he always did his best to obey his gut and allowed the emotion to flow freely.
"Do not fear." Voldemort said. "You will live to see the morning."
"Anything past that?" Harry laughed. Interesting. Voldemort noted the boy was beginning to dissociate.
"It seems likely." Voldemort bent down, running his fingers through the boy's hair before closing his grip and pulling. Harry whined and let his head be tugged back, arching his back a little before settling back on the ground. His cheeks were flaming red. On his neck, the marks were quickly becoming darker and more defined. "I appear to like touching you, but not killing you."
"Am I toy?" Harry asked.
Voldemort tilted his head to the side. Perhaps the boy would be a nice toy to have around. With time, he could transform him into the perfect toy. Even when (if) the boy stopped being fun to play with, he would be a worthy follower. He could use the boy to manipulate the wizarding public, remain hidden while using him to slowly push his ideas into the Ministry of Magic. "I think I'll make you my toy." He decided. "Perhaps not forever."
"Will you turn me into plastic?" Harry closed his eyes.
"No." Voldemort was slightly confused, but it'd be silly to question the boy over something like plastic. "I'll take you to the manor with me." He stated.
The boy didn't respond.
Good. He thought. It'll be easier to move him if he doesn't fight back.
Can I be honest with you? I have no idea what this is. Wrote it in a grand ten minutes. Am I proud? I'm not sure yet. Just another drabble, but with no actual purpose lmao