For Monday
Choice
Words: 307
Pairing: Voldemort/Harry
Harry Potter looked himself in the mirror and somehow he didn't recognise himself.
The room was dark and silent; he had woken up from a dream he hadn't had in the last seven years; he was no long a boy of seventeen. He had made his own choices and those led them to this place. To a dark room, with wandless men and women enslaved to serve him, with a psychotic killer sharing his bed, with no friends and no sunlight – literal and metaphoric . . .
His lover – can you call yourself a lover if you are not loved? - would soon be up and then there would be things to do and problems to solve and people to punish and criminals to kill.
Harry remembered his dream – only that it was not a dream, but a memory.
Long ago, he had been happy. He had had hope. He could progress, he could talk, he could joke and fight and laugh and . . . he could die. He missed the certainty of Death, that shadow who offered you comfort and peace in the end of the road.
That had been long ago.
Harry had made is choice. He had been alone, he had lost everything, he was lost and scared and he was offered a choice. He had chosen to live and his life had been taken as the price. Ironic, isn't it?
Lord Voldemort rose and immediately all the slaves moved to help their lord. One of them was blond and had been beautiful once, but he didn't remember and Harry was starting to forget.
Voldemort had taken his everything. His family, his friends, his companions, his hope and memories and dreams and emotions. And in the end, he had not taken Harry's life way, but – much, much worse – he had taken his death.
Ugh! I can believe I wrote this! Well, at least is non-con, right?