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A long while ago, there lived a child inside a nasty little cage. His name is Harry, just Harry, he says, for he could not remember the rest of his name.
It was one snowy night, when he was but a few months’ shy of twelve, that a two-faced monster plucked him from a magical school, named Hogwarts.
Oh the horror of the wizarding world, they cried piteously, “Our Savior! Our savior is gone... The boy-who-lived gone off with the wind!”
Soon enough, word spread, but word began to die as time clawed onwards. The child was dead. They presumed, and so it was said.
One bushy haired girl grieved, and one ginger haired girl lamented the loss of her hero, her crush. One boy whose heart was crushed began to spin stories, stories that people could not believe. That it was Severus Snape, who killed Harry. He wanted the stone. There was a three headed dog, and a tale that could hardly be true.
“What stone?”
“There was never a stone”, denied the headmaster, for if he said the truth, the school will close. He faced slander, as the truth erupted in the form of slabs of child abuse, as a guardian to a dead child, they need one to blame. For the loss of their hero, all for the fear of fame.
They denied the truth that was staring right at them. And they were blind when the monster struck once more, leaving Headmaster Albus with no eyes. Blood and all.
The Dark rose up and freed the light by painting the town red. It was too swift, too fast, and they all could not fathom how, but now all they had were their heads by the noose. So they kept still, and followed since one word and off it goes.
And where was the poor child all this time, our poor Harry? Well, he was stuck in a cave, where all the trinkets go.
Surrounded by bodies of people, the dead inferi swim around his island. He had one bed, and an elf that brings him food. Nothing more, nothing less. He screamed, and raged, and threatened
“Let me out, Voldemort! You can’t keep me here forever!” He screamed, with his heart on his throat.
“But I have all the time, my dear. To tear your soul, and have your heart at my lips,” a handsome man said in vivid cheer. The once two-faced monster reclaimed his true face, returning often, whispering promises, of hope that could never be.
And so all courage was drained, by isolation, by fear, by the devils that haunt the idle mind. It was not something a child could take, and so the child broke.
Easily, he broke, until he was a docile cat, waiting for his master to come by, afraid he was forgotten in his little cave.
The Dark Lord told tales of horror. Hermione was now a whore. He’d whittled the Weasleys to no more. Gone were the friends, he’d shared a lifetime, and gone was his horrid family. Gone was his name, and gone was his fame. He was forgotten. He was erased. No one knew of him, no one loved him. No one shall care for him. His life was no more. His life was no more.
Perhaps it was a crucio, the hammering in his head, of memories getting torn, of lies getting fed… but little Harry broke, and begged, and cried but the devil could only smile, and give him a pretty little kiss, right at his throat.
“Do that some more. Don’t be a bore.”
Harry got good at begging, learning nifty little tricks. Learning how to say thank you, despite feeling wronged. Learning to say please, I’m sorry, and other things children shouldn’t say, or do.
Because Voldemort was a monster, who desired nothing but his suffering.
At first.
Who’d think he’d get addicted, with the pretty smiles reserved for him, the pretty flesh, the pretty voice…
Monthly visits that left him with torment, became weekly, nightly, until there was room for more. And more. And more.
And Harry?
There’s a saying. He who fights with monsters should be careful lest he thereby become a monster. And if thou gaze long into an abyss, the abyss will also gaze into thee.
For what’s worthy of a Demon’s gaze? Is it not another demon itself? The child sold his soul for freedom, chopped it into little pieces and threw it away.
By that he earned his freedom, an illusion he cherished like no other. Even if it meant wearing a ring on his finger.
If little Harry thought of things like revenge, no one would be surprised, but he hid it with a smile, as he tortured, pillaged, and committed mass genocide. The violence was a balm to his suffering.
Eventually, he lived a happily, ever after. But that’s a different story to tell if not an impossible one.