/Yin && Yang
- "My Lord."
Lucius, clad in his black Death Eater garb, slightly shivered mentally. He'd never seen the Dark Lord so pleased, and although it didn't create an onerous situation, Lucius was still unnerved. The abundance of Dark magic flowing from Lord Voldemort was enough to choke the Malfoy, although he was the Dark Lord's right hand man and was usually exposed to his Dark magic.
- Voldemort smirked - smirked, because the Dark lord did not /smile/ - quite pleased with his subordinate.
"You shall be rewarded, Lucius. Bring - " Voldemort's almost non-existant lips twitched, amused at the prospect - "the boy inside."
The elder Malfoy bowed, then left to bring Harry in. He wasn't surpsied when he didn't meet resistance; if anything, he had to hold the boy back from rushing into the room. The Dark Lord dismissed his servant as Harry entered the room (much to Lucius's gratefulness; he was beginning to suffocate) and was interested to find that the Dark magic had no effect on Harry. If anything, the teenager seemed to be calmed by it, attracted, intrigued - he glanced around wildly for the source of the magic leak.
Upon ascertaining that Voldemort and his throne were the only objects in the room, and that the chair did not hold any Dark magical properties, Harry met his daring emerald eyes with Voldemort's amused scarlet, and a long silence ensued.
- Then Harry said, "Hello, Riddle,"
and laughed maniacally like the madman he'd come to be.
yrraH!kraD && We will commence !
Harry had become accustomed to it over the years; he never even fought back anymore. It wasn't worth it - resistance equalled extra punishment, of which was not favorable.
- Oh yes, he still wished that they would stop. He'd been wishing that for fourteen years. He wished that his virginity hadn't been taken by those of whom he was not even slightly inclined to deal with on speaking terms, nevermind sexually. He'd gotten used to that part too, of course (as a matter of fact, being raped was much more enjoyable than being tortured, as the lessons were usually shorter), but he still felt tainted, as if a part of his innocence had been taken away. He also wished that Dumbledore would take him away from here, away from his messed up 'family' (if you could call it that).
- He also knew that all three wishes were not about to come true.
- Self-induced pain.
Now, that was different. Cutting oneself is always different from being cut by another. For example, when injuring oneself, the person doing so knows exactly of when the razor-blade will strike the skin, of how deep it will slip through, and, should they be skillful and able to control the blade, they should also be able to control how much pain is created by the cut. In order to simply have a daily dose of pain without consequences, the best way is to continuously give oneself light nicks with the blade over a certain space on the arm; this will allow for blood to seep out, and pain to commence, but not enough to stain any clothing or cause faintness. For a deeper effect, continue doing so until the blade begins to cut through not only the skin, but the meat - and for a longer, lasting effect yet, slashing wildly usually creates a deep gash of which usually satiates the wish for pain.
- Should it not, a well self-aimed Crucio will most certainly do the trick.
Harry, of course, has experimented and figured out all of these ways.
What defines a friend? Is it the affection one feels to another? Is it loyalty? Or is it the act of putting up with another simply for appearances?
Hermione and Ron are not friends of Harry. They do not know or care about Harry's situation. They'll let him cut as long as it doesn't get to the public eye. As long as it does not taint their image, their feelings are not evoked. Some friends they are.
- So Harry has imaginary friends. Imaginary friends are better than real friends, because they do whatever Harry wants. They do not betray, nor do they bother. They can be whatever Harry wants, whomever Harry wants. There are no false pretenses of love.
Ron and Hermione may not like him; they may only be pretending.
- But that is okay. Because Harry has his imaginary friend Tom Marvolo Riddle - or as most would call him - the Dark Lord.
Dumbledore knows all of this, yet he does not do anything. Perhaps he seems to find it amusing. Or perhaps he has finally become the senile old man that age can be the cause of. In any case, his oblivious nature towards Harry most certainly only does harm to the Light's saviour. If he can be called that, that is. Who knows, the poor boy may be irrevocably beyond repair.
- Nothing a good Imperio couldn't fix though, right?
yrraH!kraD && We will commence !
- At one point, Harry's imagination became his reality. He'd often find himself talking to Voldemort rather than studying or doing his summer homework. And the Dark Lord was always there during his explorations of how much blood he could shed without fainting, or dying -
Sometimes he was bitter, as although he knew his life was worth a substantial bounty (he was the only one who could kill the Dark Lord, after all), he also knew that that was all it was - a substantial bounty, and that there were no other reasons to keep himself alive.
- His life was worth nothing else.
See, at least Voldemort got that.
- They hit me again," Harry said plainly, closing his eyes and conjuring the image of Riddle in his snakelike glory, slitted red eyes and all, in his mind.
Voldemort dragged his coarse fingernails over Harry's bruise harshly, inflicting more pain. "Such a pity, Potter. They're bruising your flawless face."
"Bruises are bad, aren't they?" The skinny raven-haired boy inquired breathlessly, sighing and wishing he could touch the cold hard chest of the real Dark Lord. "Cuts are better, aren't they?"
"Yesss, Potter." The imagined Parseltongue caused Harry to shiver. "Such beautiful skin. Blood looks good on this skin."
Harry smiled, reaching under his pillow for what he knew would be there. It was always there. No one ever bothered to search for it. He replied back in the same language, "I ssshould cut, ssshouldn't I?"
"Then I shall," Harry breathed quietly, eyes still closed.
- He plunged the razor into his wrist.
- "They didn't hurt me today," Harry pondered aloud, arms out flat against his old, dirty bedsheets.
"Perhaps that is because they are not here today, Potter."
Harry wrapped his mind around this idea. It made sense. "What should I do then?" He mused, smiling at the prospect of a Dursley-less day.
There was a moment's silence.
What Harry's imaginary friend said next wiped the smile off of the boy's face.
The Dark Lord was used to pain, but it had been a while since he had felt it - the last time was when he was back at the orphanage,
Back when he was Tom.
The torture was mainly due to the fact that he was different, and the others must've found it amusing to hurt him.
Disgusting weak Muggle name.
Another torrent of pain enveloped him, of which was so strong he even winced a little from it. The Death Eaters around him noticed this and Voldemort saw, annoyedly, a few expressions of hope among his not-so-loyal followers.
And then, again came the torment - but he didn't wince this time.
- He had to get Potter to stop sending him this damned pain. After he Crucio'd the Death Eaters, of course.