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Sometimes Harry felt more man than munition. Which in a way was a good thing, it meant he felt. But feelings could be bad too.
They could wrap around your body from under your safe safe bed, blinding you until you could see the colours in the void. Lasting for hours on end, unsure of where you are or where you were. Or… they could beam upon you like a warm summers ray, that somehow lingers just as you were pulled into the shade again.
Harry felt scared by these feelings, they made him merciful. they made him broken
And sometimes… Harry felt more like munition than man. A husk of a wizard whose only purpose was to hurt.
And Harry hated hurt. It was ugly, it had scars and raven-stained hair, and eyes that were pools of murder. It looked like h̴i̷m̷.̴.
Harry never wanted to hurt. He never wanted to grasp their lifeless form in his hands, serpentine blood seeping into the murky chamber floor, dripping from that blade. But his magic, his destiny, made it so.
It was twisted, and he knew it so. He so evidently hated hurting people, he so evidently despised war, but he so desperately wanted to belong. And eventually, he didn’t have to. He was saved.
Voldemort rescued him, from his own subconscious, giving him the childhood he never had. Giving him food, home, family and love. Voldemort even told him he would never have to fight again.
Harry was finally at peace, Harry was finally safe. Harry belonged.
But then Voldemort got attacked, and Harry thought he could help. But as he stares down at the Elder Wand, wizards in turmoil begging for his head or bowing at his feet, he knows he can never escape. He will never be their saviour, he will always be a freak.
And he will always be the one who brought Dumbledore to his knees.
——///——
Sometimes Tom felt more magi than muggle. Which in a way was a good thing, it meant he belonged. But belonging could be wrong too.
It could wrap around your mind from atop your secure secure throne, suffocating you until you could see nothing but the light and its lovers. Lasting for hours on end, unsure of what you are or what you wish to be. Or… they could swarm around you like the shadow of an eclipse, that somehow lingers just as you were forced into the light again.
Tom felt hated by these belongings, they made him monstrous. they made him fearful
And sometimes… Tom felt more muggle than magi. A phantom of an orphan whose only purpose was to die.
And Tom hated death. It was ugly, it had scars and chocolate-tousled hair, and eyes that were pools of painted glass. It looked like ḩ̸̭̀́ĩ̴̻̞̈́m̸̡͇̀͂͌.̶͎̬̦̏
Tom.., Voldemort never wanted to die. He never wanted to see the lightning struck by acid rain to lash out at him, fragments of a soul melting into molten ash on the bedroom floor, ricocheting from that child. But his magic, his destiny, made it so.
It was twisted, and he knew it so. He so evidently adored hurting people, he so evidently thrived in war, but he so desperately wanted to belong. And eventually, he didn’t have to. He was loved.
Harry rescued Voldemort, from his own subconscious, giving him the equal he always craved. Giving him love, acceptance, understanding and life. Harry even told him he would never have to fear again.
Tom was finally at peace, Tom was finally safe. Tom belonged.
But Dumbledore attacked, and Voldemort knew this had to stop. But as he stares down at the Order, wizards in turmoil screaming at his entirety or petrified at his feet, he knows he can never escape. He will never be their oppressor, he will always be a freak.
And he will always be the only one who brought Harry Potter peace.