Warning: Character death, Slash. Dark Harry. Voldemort/Harry Potter

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.

Summary: Their demands, their accusations, their cries and screams and deaths. They overwhelmed him and eventually lead to their own demise.

Notes: Harry is 16. Voldemort has his younger body (20 years, before the snake face) due to a spell that helped regain the sanity he lost from his horcruxes.

Word Count: 509 (only actual Drabble)

One Drabble a Day Challenge, Date: Saturday, September 19th, 2009


They took and took and took and never gave: it was a tiring eternal cycle that left him drained and wanting.

Cold and alone.

Desperate and longing.

Hurt and abandoned.

He was never good enough: not manly enough, not strong enough, not smart enough, not courageous enough, not hero enough, not him enough. Every accomplishment made the demands became stronger and louder and overwhelming but they just didn't care. They pushed and pushed and took and took and demanded and demanded but never gave: not a smile, or a 'well done' or even a pat on the head.


And it left him wanting and yearning and drowning and completely and in every sense of the word overwhelmed!

It was if he was some toy they could just wind up and set wherever they wanted to do whatever they wanted and when he was exhausted and overwhelmed, all they had to do was wind him up and set him in place again. Did he mean so little to them? Was he nothing more than a weapon to them?

His life had been such a monotone chore before magic and then that had been traded for nothing more than the life of a sacrificial dog, sitting when they say 'sit', speaking when they say 'speak' and jumping the instant they say 'jump'.

And he was so god damned overwhelmed he felt as if he was drowning in all his pent up emotions he held. Drowning from the inside out.

Slim, pale hands slid down his torso smoothly, easily distracting the hyperventilating male under his sin like hands as pale lips stretched into a smirk.

That would be their downfall, the cause of the Light Side's death. They had been thoughtless when it came to him, to Harry James Potter who, to them, was nothing more than a scapegoat, a weapon, a tool, a chained hero. Because they hadn't taken the time to understand him, to show they care, to love him or comfort him.

But he had. He had done that and more. Presented him with gifts, held him when he cried and shook, kissed away his nightmares and murmured sweet nothings through the screams.

While they tossed him aside at every turn and corner, he had picked him up and carried him gently while the others forced the weight of the world on his shoulders.

And that was why the Light Side would fall.

Numerous sets of eyes stared at him in disgust, anger and betrayal but Harry, now calmed in the arms of Tom Marvolo Riddle—aka Lord Voldemort—just smiled at the question that had slipped from the lips of Ronald Weasley.


His answer was stated simply and calmly, emerald eyes staring up into warm crimson ones.

"Because he loved me. Loved me me, not Harry Potter the Boy-Who-Live me, but just Harry me. And because he expects nothing but for me to love him back."

And now, it wasn't him that was overwhelmed anymore. It was them.

And Tom smiled.

And the light side burned.