Simple
(Post Mortem)
This drabble contains spoilers.
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“Leave us,” Lord Voldemort orders, and after a moment of hesitation only he and Harry remain in the room. The bruised necromancer takes a deep breath, and pushes himself to sit up.
“I suppose those fools were a tad too eager to get their hands on you,” Voldemort says, sounding nearly sorry. “But if it makes you feel any better, you scare them quite a bit.”
“I know,” Harry replies and tries to wipe some of the blood off his face. “I gave them all the reasons to. They deserved it.”
“Oh yes, revenge. So many you’ve known are dead now, I believe,” Voldemort tells him with casual nonchalance. “My condolences. Truly, it must be terrible to be such a mortal. And get attached to other mortals. The more I think about it, I suppose you might as well blame yourself. Everybody dies, after all. Except me.”
“Is that so,” Harry says with a grimace. “So many dead and even more are being tortured by your people. Does that really make you feel nothing? Not a twinge of pity? You enjoy their pain, don’t you?”
“Quite,” Voldemort drawls. “Dumbledore has this theory, dear Harry. He thinks my past made me a monster. He believes that due to my childhood, I picked the wrong path and got helplessly lost somewhere on that road. All the bad things I do, I assure you, are because my life as I grew up was dreadfully void of hugs.”
“Your choices made you a monster.”
“I deal with pain by recycling it.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Harry grunts, and Voldemort shrugs. “I had… My childhood…”
“Oh yes,” Voldemort cuts in, and leans forward. His red eyes gleam with almost childish joy and he smiles with genuine amusement. “Your childhood. I’ve seen the minds of the people you hold close, and I must say I’m impressed. Your parents have managed to ruin your life in a manner so spectacular that you will never recover. This knowledge keeps me happy.”
Harry clenches his eyes shut and groans. This encounter wasn’t going the way he thought it would. “What do you want?”
“I’m a Dark Lord who needs a dead and deadly army, and you’re a Necromancer,” Voldemort says almost cheerfully, and Harry cannot help but feel that the man would have been much easier to deal with if he had turned out to be a raging megalomaniac with no sense of humour. “You do the math. It’s simple.”
Simple, he says.
Harry opens his eyes and stares at the man.
‘I’ll show him simple.’
marlowfication 