Warning: Slash. Chan.
Disclaimer: I don't own Claymore or Harry Potter.
Notes: Harry is 11, in an attempt to get away from the Hogwarts' letters, Vernon took the family to the 'Inner Continents' were the Claymore world takes place, ignoring tales of monsters.
Word Count: 376 (only actual Drabble)
There had been a time when Isley remembered being little, when he would cling to his mother's apron and beg to be held, or to be told a story. He vaguely remembered his father being a drunk and beating him and his mother every day, and his mother praying for the bastard's soul, for redemption for his unworthy being.
He clearly remembered the night he came upon his father, a Yoma, feasting on his mother's guts and how he cleaved that monster's head from behind while he feasted.
It was what had gotten him into the organization. His family, from then on, had been too scared of him. They sold him, although Isley had gone without much struggle.
His years as a Claymore had blurred together, though, and all Isley remembered was the desire for something more. The buzz of pleasure that lay behind his limits, the promise for something so entirely delectable he couldn't help but give in.
Nearly a hundred years later, and Isley was still at the top in power. He was a ruler, too powerful for the Organization to tackle and thus left alone when he attacked villages, his hunger for human guts almost unbearable.
And that was how he first lay eyes on him. The little human he had decided he would take on as his mate. He had avoided attacking the little emerald eyed boys family at first, wanting his little mate to trust him first before he killed them all and took the boy with him. It had worked. Soon enough Harry—for that was his little mate's name—looked forward to his visits. Eagerly awaited him and hung onto his every word.
Even as he stood in front of him, covered head to toe in his family's blood, his little mate still clung to him desperately, begging not to be left behind, begging not to be abandoned.
Allowing himself to change back into his human form—for it was more pleasing to the eye—Isley titled his little mate's head back and captured his still moving mouth in his own, lifting his little one carefully and walking past the numerous dead bodies that littered the floor of the village.
Who needed redemption when they had gold?