The raven-haired young man, at the age of 16, sat on the edge of the bed, blood of crimson coating his hands. The knife, which had finished the deed, lay on the floor at his feet, staining the carpet.

Behind him lay the figure of his lover, the face contorted into rage and shock, pain and something Harry Potter couldn't identify.

Nothing mattered except that he was now free.

Bruised, with a broken bone, mentally unstable.

Yes, that was he.

The broken soul who had endured so much since being captured at the age of 12 by one Tom Marvolo Riddle, otherwise known as Lord Voldemort.

At first, it had been soft, sweet little touches. Gently placing a hand on his thigh, soft caresses to his cheeks, feathery kisses to his forehead. Then it progressed to chaste kisses on his lips, gentle hugs, possessive gestures around the Death Eaters.

Then one night, it had gone too far.

Until that night, Harry had been a virgin.

Until that night, Tom had never raped a soul.

Tom had reached out and grabbed his wrist, tugging Harry roughly to face him. He ignored the soft cry of slight pain from the boy, as he forcibly crushed their lips together.

As he kissed Harry, Tom had ripped at his shirt and magic'd his jeans off, leaving the boy naked before him. Harry had tried to back away, but no, Tom wouldn't allow that.

Domineeringly, Tom had backed Harry up to the edge of the bed, laughing manically as he fell backwards with a soft "Oomp!" and then "Tom, stop!" as the older man had covered his body with his own, rutting against the boy's own tender sex. Harry had been helpless.

And that was just the way Tom liked him, he discovered. Because after that fateful night, while Harry had hoped Tom would be gentle at least once, just once, he never was.

It was always rough and punishing. And no amount of cries or screams would stop the older man from slapping him, digging his nails into tender flesh, or pounding roughly into the infected rings of Harry's arse. Nothing would ever get the man to stop.

So, when he had gone after Harry tonight, Tom had not seen the tears nor heard the soft sobs as he took Harry. He had not seen the love in his soft emerald eyes, not matter how much he didn't deserve the love. Tom hadn't felt the way Harry's body had seized up after he was through. But, he had felt the way Harry left the room. He was accustomed to it. He merely thought Harry was getting a drink.

But he returned with a knife. He waited until Tom was asleep, and the he crawled onto the bed, straddled his abusive lover, and plunged the thick knife deeply into Tom's chest.

Again and again, until the blood squirted into the air and coated Harry in the glistening liquid.

Again and again, until Tom was weeping in pain.

"Why, Harry?" he had whispered softly, with his dying breath.

Harry didn't have the strength to answer him, as his own tears fell down his cheeks.

He had killed the only man to love him.

Even if he was abusive.

Because it hurt.