Written by Chibikan
For all the children and teens who have ever been abused. And for all those who did not survive it, your deaths will not be in vain.
Warnings: Child Abuse, Violence, Language
Summary: Harry Potter, after trying to tell Dumbledore since first year (it's now the beginning of sixth) about the abuse at the Dursley's, he's finally grown desperate and goes to Voldemort, losing faith in the old headmaster. What will happen to him now?
July 31st, Midnight, Little Hangleton
Lightning flashed and rain poured down outside the old Riddle Manor. Voldemort grinned as he sipped his hot chamomile tea. He greatly enjoyed a good thunderstorm. They were potentially deadly, as was he. He sat in his favorite easy chair, situated directly in front of the window to get a better view. This was better than even the Edgar Allan Poe book which held in his lap. He placed his teacup back on it's saucer and opened to his favorite poem, reading aloud to himself.
"Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary. Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore -- " He stopped, he'd thought he'd heard the sound of bus slamming it's way past. He looked up, and looked out, and saw nothing. Shrugging, he returned to his poem. "While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping. As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door --" He peeked up again, having thought he'd seen a figure out in the rain, out of the corners of his eyes. Looking properly, he saw nothing, as before. " 'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door --" He continued, turning back again to the book. "Only this and…" And he stopped again, he'd definitely seen something, no doubt. Voldemort stood to his feet and went closer to the window for an attempt to see better through the torrential rains. He saw nothing still. "Now, I KNOW I saw SOMETHING." But though he tried, he saw nothing, there was nothing to see. He shook his head. "Voldemort, ol' boy, you're losing your mind." The Dark Lord made to sit down when there came a thump from outside his front door. He marked the page in his book and hurried to the door. He opened it and looked directly in front of him. There was no one, until he looked down. A young boy, with messy black hair he would know anywhere, lay barely conscious and exhausted. "Potter?"
AN: Another cry against child abuse. Please read.
KUDOS IF YOU CAN GUESS THE TITLE AND AUTHOR OF THE POEM