Hey sorry it's been a while, ive been through some shit and sadly have no time to draw any Tomarrymort, so I can only present you this snippet I wrote a long while ago, inspired by contrapasso wrote by hanamichi, it's a very good read, I recommend it from the bottom of my heart.
With love. With hate. With something unfathomable between he and him. Something felt so sacred yet fragile, cracked and disappeared in cold dead night with simply touch of a feather. Yet in this dimly light room, with bed as its holy altar, no feather should be found in this sanctuary, only former dark lord with his chosen lamb.
His touch is anything but cruel, yet this act itself is the embodiment of cruelty. It was cruel, merciless, even blasphemous, when sinners came to god yearned for atonement, only to be met by the face of the devil in disguise, for him to be giving fictitious salvations to ravenous miscreants.
Harry shakes. His body is home to so many sins and grief, it shambles under mere touch of kindness, of care. It knows nothing but pain, since he was marked on that fateful night, with owner of this hand of incompatible benevolence. It knows briefly, of warm hugs and heartfelt touches, yet in its core, hard punches and dislocated fingers are a more familiar music.
"Please..." Harry begs. Begging for what? He does not know. For the kindness to shed its abhorrent skin? To cease to be what it is not, and reattain its wicked self? To be the Lord of Darkness, the habitat of the monster with so, so much rage, yet the little orphan so full of ambition with a vision of centuries? To be the entity respected by many, but feared, always feared by many more?
( 'But not me.' 'No, not you, Harry.' )
"Shh... You're doing so well, Harry." The man who should be the devil whispers, he who should be granting him the suffering, yet punished him with underserved touch of affection. It was frustrating, and confusing, it grated eerily in Harry's body, his mind, and his broken soul.
He doesn't know what to do, for he is underserved of this kindness, even if it came from the once incarnation of cruelty, even if this incarnation himself is the cause of all his suffering in his life, since the wicked green of the Unforgivable kissed his forehead in his crib.
"Just let go, Harry. Let me take care of you."
Eye filled with tears and mind with despair; with screams and faces and memories of many dead, still echoing like a broken record, singing a song buzzed with static only he can hear; with regrets and grief and an overwhelming sense of impending doom; yet, they shaken and shattered under every gentle touch, under every hot breath in his ear; and the constant pleasant warmth, like sitting before a fireplace in room full with golden stripes and red, embrace him as a lover would. Harry closed his tearful eyes.
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