Blood Dripping on the Forest Floor

Deathly greetings

All Harry can find to drink, was a glass of fire whiskey on the counter, and a dripping half melted Blood Pop.
That's when Harry knew he should find Rosier before the sun came up.
He'd always known, down the whiskey, eat the blood pop, find the monster.
It had always been when food and drink was scarce in the house, that they'd have to move.
But still, he looked at the full bottle of whiskey and the half eaten blood pop, and wondered if they couldn't stay awhile.
The water from the tap dripped in the sink, and Harry almost wanted to take a sip.
He shrugged, picked up the blood pop and whiskey, before heading out the door into the darkened hall.
It had been nine years since Evan Rosier had kidnapped him, keeping him on the run away from Voldemort and the order.
Still, he never knew why.
He'd supposed it had been for his own misery, but over time found himself growing fond of the monstrous death eater, who everyone had deemed mentally unstable.
Harry walked a long way, before reaching the front door and walking out into the forest that surrounded the house.
He'd seen the headlines
BOY WHO LIVED; KIDNAPPED AND KILLED?
This is it folks, has the boy who lived really been kidnapped? Is it the end for everything we know? Will you-know-who destroy all we've fought for? Has the boy who lived finally lost his title?
Harry didn't know how he was still alive, or why.
He'd always just know that blood pops were his favorite treat, and Evan got him plenty of them.
Harry liked to assume Evan was his uncle, until the man had thrown the cruciatus curse at him, and screamed.
"You're a disgrace to all human kind!" He said. "Killing off my lord was the last you'd do!" He'd slammed Harry into a wall and kicked him hard. "You'd die if not for you're use!"
And the man was right.
He always was.
Harry hadn't known at the time what the man meant, but found out fast when he'd turned thirteen years old.
Evan liked to touch him.
Anyway he'd pleased.
Harry didn't mind, because he got to touch Evan too.
He was fifteen now, and he'd barely been able to remember life before Evan, he'd only been six when he was taken.
Evan liked the number six, Harry found.
It seemed to be his favorite number.
Harry liked numbers.
Numbers are an insane mans escape.
"Numbers are an insane mans escape." Evan had said to him when he was only ten, but somehow Harry remembered it clear as day.
He'd told himself that on occasion, staring out the window with the locks on it, melted blood dripping from his tongue, and a half glass of fire whiskey in his hand.
He often said it, trying to count the days, but it seemed he always lost track.
Harry only remembered he was 9 when he'd killed his first victim, and for once Evan had been so proud of him.
He'd been proud enough to buy him a whole box of blood pops, and two bottles of fire whiskey all to himself.
Harry liked to think he made Evan proud.
Or at least that's what he told himself.
He couldn't tell you why, but he'd always hoped so.
He tipped the blood pop in his hand, watching it drip into the blades of grass beneath his bare feet, hoping Evan would somehow be able to smell the metallic liquid and come running.
That was always the thing with Evan.
His sense of smell was perfect.
Harry thought everything about Evan was perfect, especially the mans ways to insanity and his dark red lips.
Harry always thought they tasted like blood, the man had eaten enough blood pops to have them permanently engraved into his breath.
"Purple smoke and candy skulls Colors bleeding through the walls Dripping, swirling as they fall."
Harry had never heard much music before.
He liked music.
He often wondered what song it was that Evan always hummed and had to dodge a few plates when he'd asked.
Harry continued walking through the forest, dark and deep as the ever ending hole in his heart.
"Alcohol is poison."
"Why drink it?"
"There are things inside of me I need to kill."
Harry always thought he'd end up as what he ate.
He'd thought his blood would turn to poison in his veins and red metallic liquid would seep through his perfect pale skin.
He came to a clearing in the forest, the dark black lake around it, seemed to bubble like hot sticky goo in a fairytale.
He let some more of the blood pop drip before turning it up and placing it in his mouth to finish.
Then there were hands around his throat.
Big strong hands that Harry would know anywhere, and even as the oxygen left his body, he couldn't help but smile.
"If we are what we eat," he strangled out.
"Would something as simple as my kiss poison your perfect lungs?"
His breathing was low and tight, and Evan chuckled darkly.
With a finale kiss he swore, for the first and last time, Harry finally knew that the mans lips did in fact taste of blood and whiskey, a sweet and bitter taste to Harry.
As they tumbled back, they fell into the tar lake, the black goo, swallowing them up.
As Harry's skin burned and they sunk to the lakes floor, he couldn't help but wonder.
Wonder just how he'd tasted to Evan, and if he tasted nearly as sweet as the last bits of insanity swept over his melting corpse.

The house was empty, the forest of blood, the lake full of lovers, and the counter held only a glass of fire whiskey, and a half eaten, half melted blood pop, that no one would ever get to finish.