Rating: M/NC-17

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Warnings: LV/HP; I like to think it's somewhat Severitus; foul language and explicit sexual content between two males – slash; angst – but not of the desperate, kill-me-now kind; character death; maybe dubious consent – though it is more reluctant consent; spoilers; AR.

Challenge: Kamerreon's Rare Slash-Pairing Challenge.

Summary: In the apex of the Battle of Hogwarts, something changes; Harry Potter and the Dark Lord are forced to leave this world and come to understand their fate. They are trapped in an odd house and forced to make choices that can change the destiny of their very own souls.

Words:~ 11,500

Notes: Lady Logos suggests you listen to 1) Philip Glass's String Quartet Number 2; 2) Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata; 3) David Lanz's Christofori's Dream, while reading this, since she feels it suits the mood well. Thank you very much for the suggestion, Lady Logos! ;)

It looks like a beautiful explosion of fireworks on the nightly sky. But it's nothing that innocent . . .

The battle is at its most. From both sides, several warriors have already fallen, but its leaders are still willing to lose some more if it means to end this war once and for all. He agrees with this reasoning. Hexes and curses pass right by him – and their colours are breathtaking – but he doesn't care, they won't hit him, because he has a purpose in this world and the Fates will not lose their best soldier . . . and if they do, that's okay, he has nothing to live for anymore.

His wand is drawn and he mumbles curses under his breath – his favourite is Sectumsempra, in honour of his mentor – and one after another, his enemies fall to their deaths. He would have cared once, but not anymore, now he understands that lives are expendable if the majority of the humanity is to live their meagre little lives happily and uncaring to the tragedy of others.

People die and death is the only thing that will certainly come for all men and women, so he chooses it as his life-line.

He approaches the centre of the battle and there are less bodies and more living people screaming curses in a desperate attempt to survive. Now, the last thing on their minds is good or evil; now, they cling on to their lives frantically because is the only thing they have left. He understands, even if he would welcome death, he still understands the beauty of life and he still wants to bring out the splendour again . . . and for that, Lord Voldemort must die.

"Harry Potter!"

He looks ahead at the sound of his name and sees the Dark Lord treading through the crowd, unharmed and untouched by the spells, ethereal in form, but very much material in threat, whose crimson eyes are glistening with the excitement of the battle, of death and suffering; whose deformed face glows in the darkness of the night and the yew wand his resting on its holster in the left arm, prepared to be drawn, but it's unnecessary to do so for anyone that is not Harry Potter.

Harry Potter and Lord Voldemort face each other.

The battle comes to a halt, every warrior stops and all of their eyes focus on the two men at the centre. The outcome of this war is going to be decided in this moment. There isn't Love Magic to save Harry and there aren't any Horcruxes to save Voldemort. It is a matter of skill now.

Harry looks back to the castle and at the top of the tallest tower is Albus Dumbledore, controlling the battle as if his wand had strings attached to the warriors on the ground. He shields and protects his puppets and their home from high above, like a god – Harry believes that Dumbledore loves that idea.

He faces forward again. Voldemort is still there, eyeing him eagerly. The Dark Lord believes he is going to win. Harry is to do his best to ensure that that does not happen and he thinks he has a chance. Severus Snape taught him well, at least once in his life.

Harry wonders how Snape is doing. He really hopes he has survived, because if anyone deserves a chance to actually live it is Severus Snape . . . out of the clutches of Lord Voldemort and Albus Dumbledore . . . That sounds too good for Harry Potter.

The sworn enemies are circling each other, eyes locked, when finally the tension snaps―

"Avada Kedavra!"

"Expelliarmus!"

It's a legend; it's epic how they faced each other three times and they still use the same spells to try to bring the other down. They ought to have learned, but it's a sweet tradition and neither is willing to break it and thank heavens for that, because it's from unconscious actions like these that one understands how the Fates thread the destiny of men.

The ground crumbles.

It's frightening how much magic can be felt in the air; it's neither good nor evil, it's just magic.

It surrounds Harry and Voldemort in a vial of translucent white-blue energy, enlightening the darkness of the night. Their wands are taken from them and they are vaporized as soon as they touch the edges of their prison. The two wizards shout, but it's useless. The vial starts to compress, more and more, and without a choice, Harry and Voldemort approach each other in an attempt to delay their imminent contact with the white-blue energy. They are so close . . .

It touches Harry first – he is that lucky – and it burns, but not in a painful way, just as if foreigner magic was making its way into Harry's body; it feels like something is intruding on the very nature of his being. It feels good, actually . . . and for the surprised look on Voldemort's snake-like face, Harry knows he is feeling good too.

It gets tight. The force pushes Harry against Voldemort until they are touching from chest to toe, and it's disturbing in a way that Harry doesn't know if he is ever going to forget.

Voldemort feels his senses being invaded by strange sensations. How long hasn't he been this close to anyone else? There is the smell of blood, dirt, sweat, but there is also that smell that defines a person. Harry is a person. Voldemort knows that he has no scent at all. He is nothing but a shadow.

The energy compresses to a thin line coming from the earth. It joins Harry and Voldemort―

Suddenly, it explodes.

Like a supernova, the white-blue light flees through Hogwarts illuminating the darkest corners. It blinds the warriors and destroys their wands. It means that they aren't allowed to fight anymore.

The light recedes fast, compressing again until it reaches Harry and Voldemort and they are compressed with it, thinner and thinner, until the light vanishes and takes the two sworn enemies with it.

It's quiet after.

Not a sound can be heard. The dawn breaks, but it's shallow compared to the light that soared through the night just moments ago. Voldemort is gone, but no one is celebrating, because he took Harry Potter with him.

In the silence of the aftermath, Fawkes begins his song.

-xXxXx-

Harry wakes up. His head hurts like hell. He's in a very weird position; his limbs are all twisted in an unnatural fashion. He shifts and lays on his back, eyes still closed, trying to make sense of what happened.

The spells – the light – the wands – and the last thing he remembers is looking up at the empty crimson eyes of Lord Voldemort and see the reflexion of Albus Dumbledore running to them.

That springs him to action. He jumps up and, adopting a defensive stance, he assesses his surroundings. Voldemort is not in the room, that's good―

It was actually a very cosy room.

It had a fireplace and a beautiful painting above the mantelpiece. The painting showed a lake – much like the lake of Hogwarts – and the sun shone in the sky. The fireplace was burning and there were comfortable-looking red armchairs and loungers and chaise-longs and sofas and the furniture was made of light-brown wood. The carpet was golden and very fluffy. The room was candle-lit and it had a peaceful glow about it. There were no windows and only one door―

It's so silent, silent like a graveyard. Harry can feel the magic floating in the air and he wonders where he is. The silence is weird, not even the burning wood can be heard . . . it's unnatural.

Harry hears a whispering noise and turns around quickly.

Lord Voldemort is standing in the doorway with a calculating glint in his eyes. He has no wand, but can perform wandless magic, Harry knows it.

Swiftly both of them stretch their right hands, gather their magic and focus their minds on the direction of the spell.

"Stupefy!"

"Incarcerous!"

Nothing happens and Voldemort knows that they can perform such spells without wands. It just confirms is suspicions. They are not allowed to attack each other. He still has three questions – well, he has a lot more than just three, but all of them can be answered if he knows three things: who or what has brought them to this place? Where are they? Why?

Harry is looking at him warily. The hate in those green eyes is so intense that it makes Voldemort aroused. Hate is such a powerful emotion. Ignoring the boy, he moves and sits on the lounger that is closer to the fireplace. A goblet of scotch appears on the side table next to the seat.

Harry gazes at Voldemort and smirks. The can almost hear the wizard's thoughts. Harry knows that Voldemort is seething because he does not know what is happening. Voldemort does not like to lose control. Harry wants to laugh and mock him, but there is no possible escape to his hate and he does not want to be in the same room with this creature without being strictly necessary.

He looks around the room again―

"What the!" he shouts and jumps.

The room is not cosy and peaceful anymore. There aren't any candles but the room glows green . . . The chairs are still red, but they are rotting and the carpet looks like it was half eaten by mice. There are spider webs everywhere, dangling from the ceiling, in the corners, under the chairs, in the fireplace . . . The fireplace! The fire is still burning, but it glows green – it looks like the house has been abandoned for decades and it's rotting, rotting – it's oppressing and dark and it feels so much like Grimmauld Place . . .

That stirs something in his memory. The room looks familiar. He focuses a bit . . . An old Muggle – fire – Peter Pettigrew – snake―

The Riddle Manor.

"Why have you brought us here?" Harry asks Voldemort and his voice is cold and tight with repressed loathing. He knows he's not likely to get an answer, but even if Voldemort had no control over their forced Apparition, he was still the only one out of the two of them who knew the location of this house.

Voldemort looks at him. He actually looks at him and his cold eyes are assessing the boy in front of him. He looks less hostile, but his eyes are empty; they are not Occluding, just empty as if there was nothing beneath the hatred and fear.

"You know where we are?" is the simple reply.

Harry blinks, surprised. Voldemort doesn't know where they are? That is odd. Harry refuses to look at the man. It's too overwhelming being in front of him and unable to attack. Voldemort, on another hand, feasts on Harry's presence, but then again he has always been a sadistic man.

"Yes, it's the Riddle Manor," Harry says. Voldemort tenses, he straightens his back and his eyes change; now, he is Occluding.

"I hadn't realised." He sounds weird, Harry wants to say broken, but he can't make his mind connect 'Voldemort' and 'broken'.

Voldemort ignores Harry's gaze. At least he knows where. However, it's not good; this place does peculiar things to Voldemort's mind.

He cannot think straight, he feels oppressed and there is so much magic in the air, raw magic, white magic. He's so aware of the darkness cursing through his immortal body, it itches and weights and it's so oppressing . . . He has to focus all of his energy not to fidget and to stay still, and he's uncomfortable, no matter what he does and it's so fucking-oppressing that he wants to tear his skin open to take the darkness away . . . But he doesn't. He just stays still and prevents his mind to wander over long buried issues.

Whoever brought them here is trying to make Voldemort face his past, the reasons behind his actions. Voldemort knows this because he is the most brilliant wizard that has ever walked Hogwarts' halls and the wizarding circles – he knows the theory of his nature but the darkness creeps inside him and his mind cannot connect with his heart or soul or whatever it is that makes a man's volition.

Suddenly, Harry can feel the Voldemort's discomfort and the reason behind it. It's too much and Harry has to leave the room. He walks to the door, but stops.

A tiny Hermione-voice, belonging to his conscience, warns him that it's not wise to wander around in unknown territory. Harry almost laughs – he is feeling a bit hysterical. Yes, it is not wise to wander around, but the reason why it is not wise – Voldemort – is currently sitting behind him and cannot attack him, so he guesses he is going to be fine―

He takes one last look at the drawing room.

It's raining in the oil above the mantelpiece.

Perturbed by the oddness of that work of art, Harry exits the room, trying to wrap his mind around the fact that this house is changing at its own will. He was intending in explore the house, but it frightens him what the sudden changes may mean; it feels much too familiar for him to dismiss it and mysteriously understandable for him to pretend detachment . . .

The next division is not what he was expecting it to be, considering his knowledge of the Riddle Manor. It's a hall and the white light of the kitchen comes from the door immediately in front of the drawing room. There is a crimson carpet along the hall. It's a strong pull that motions him towards the room at the end. There isn't any light, but the torches light up when Harry walks by them; there are shadows created by moonlight, but there aren't any windows. The patterns in the carpet are spiralling and Harry's feels hypnotised by them. He is still a strong-willed man, so he looks away and still tries to open the other two doors – one at right and the other at left – along the way. Neither opens, but he knows they will when the time comes.

Feeling a lot like Alice in the Wonderland, Harry moves down the hall. He opens the mahogany door at last―

"Get up, boy!" Uncle Vernon shouts, banging Harry's bedroom door. A teen in his fourteens walks out of door, clutching in his hand a letter from his godfather. He puts it in his pocket and walks to the kitchen in order to make breakfast.

The real Harry stares at the younger version of himself in shock, while the room changes to accommodate the boy's movement. Harry almost didn't recognise himself – there is such a light in the younger boy's eyes and such passionate loathing when he looks at his uncle – how long has it been since the real Harry felt so strongly about anything?

And the room . . . He can distinguish the blank black walls and white floor behind the translucent illusions; it's a simple square of cement and bricks that for some reason shows the past . . . and the future?

The room changes again―

"Get up, boy!" This time it's an old Muggle woman that shouts and Harry recognises her as the headmistress of the orphanage where Tom Riddle grew up. The woman leaves to go bang in more doors and Harry's is transported to the other side of the white door of Riddle's room―

Harry screams when he sees what's happening.

Tom Riddle is being pounded from behind by an older boy, whose face contorted in pleasure and satisfaction at the grunts escaping from the fourteen year old Riddle; he has his face pressed against the pillow and look of pure hatred in his eyes. Riddle allows the boy to come, but when he is riding the pleasure waves of his orgasm, a heavy globe soars through the room, crosses the real Harry's head and lodges itself on the boy's skull.

And Riddle laughs while he brings himself to completion―

Harry doesn't want to see more, he feels sick and the message the room was trying to send is deeply lodged in his mind – you were the same, but there were differences which made you who you are – Harry opens the door and runs through the hall.

He shouldn't feel sorry for Lord Voldemort, but he does; Tom Riddle maimed a boy and Harry still pities him. He has felt sorry for him since the moment Dumbledore told him that Merope didn't love her son enough to live for him. He lied about it of course, but he couldn't – and still can't – shake the feeling that things could have been very different for Tom Riddle.

Where Lily and James loved their son, Merope and Tom Sr. abandoned theirs. Tom Riddle never knew love . . .

Harry bumps into a solid body. He looks up to see two crimson eyes regarding him with cold detachment. Harry bounces back, and his back hits the wall. He looks at Lord Voldemort and suddenly he can see Tom Riddle. All those training sessions to learn how to disconnect himself from his victims lose their meaning at the sight of a man who was once a neglected boy―

"Why did you do that to that boy?" he sputters without thinking. Voldemort tenses and freezes. He seems to understand what Harry is referring to, even if Harry is sure that there were a lot of more incidents like that one. The glint in Voldemort's eyes is pure satisfaction: there's no regret, no anger at Harry for finding out or sorrow for his lost innocence. He laughs.

"Are you feeling sorry for me, little Harry?" he taunts, approaching the boy, who is still pressed against the wall. Their noses almost touch. Harry can feel the other's breath on his cheek. "I offered. There's only one thing that drives young boys such as yourself: hormones." He laughed his humourless laugh once more. "He had the gall to try to bully me. Poor sod didn't even know what hit him. I pledged self-defence and nobody questioned me," he considered Harry for a moment. "You've seen a new side of my darkness, little Harry; how does that makes you feel?"

Harry is drenched in cold sweat. Voldemort is so close and he makes Harry light-headed with the hot waves of magic that roll out of his odourless body. He wants to get away; he needs to get away, to think freely once more. Voldemort is pure silk when he wants to be and it scares Harry so much; how can this evil person symbolise the deepest wish of Harry's heart? Voldemort is mad, he is insane, he feels nothing, he is bound to nothing―

Lord Voldemort is free.

"I―"

"Harry!" The voice that sounds through the house it's Hermione's. Harry looks around frantically, but sees nothing. Voldemort hasn't moved yet, so Harry reasons that he is not hearing the voice. He remembers when she told him that 'hearing voices that nobody else hears is not a good sign, not even in the wizarding world'―

A head appears in front of the fireplace. It's Dumbledore's.

Voldemort looks up and Harry can almost swear that he has jumped startled, but he is only tense now so Harry cannot be sure. Harry pushes Voldemort away from his body and runs to the living room; he kneels on the golden rug. The room is once again in perfect conditions, but when Voldemort enters, it becomes rotten. Harry begins to understand why it changes.

"Harry," Dumbledore calls and his eyes seem invaded by a deep concern. "How are you, my boy? You look awfully pale." Voldemort remembers the time when Dumbledore would care for him like he is caring for Harry. Harry looks at the man as if he has lost his mind.

"Is that a joke, Professor?" Dumbledore looks stunned. Voldemort smirks; there is something very satisfactory in seeing the old man be mistreated by his charge. The Headmaster shakes his head self-deprecatingly.

"You are right, I apologise," the Headmaster says. Voldemort's smirk deepens and grows more sadistic. "Is Tom in there with you?"

"Yes, I am, Dumbledore," the Dark Lord intervened. Several gasps are heard from the other side and Harry realises that his friends are with Dumbledore on this. "You wish to speak to me?"

"With both of you actual―"

"I assume this is a Calling Circle," Voldemort interrupts. Dumbledore nods. "It's kept by blood," he muses to himself. Then he looks straight at the Headmaster and straightens his back. "Do you know where we are?" Dumbledore smiles weakly.

"I am afraid only you can tell where you are . . ." Harry opens his mouth to reply, but Voldemort speaks first, successfully preventing Harry to give away their location; the last thing Voldemort needs is to have Dumbledore's eyes twinkling in sympathy .

"It doesn't matter where I think I am, I want you to tell me where you think I am," the dark wizard commands. For once, Harry doesn't speak in Dumbledore's defence.

"I believe you are trapped in the limbo," Dumbledore states calmly.

"Between life and death?" Harry exclaims, his temper rising.

"No, my boy, between choices, fates," the old man elaborates. Harry doesn't understand, but Voldemort nods and retreats to his inner world to process the information.

They are being given a second opportunity. Somewhere, someone decided that Harry Potter and Lord Voldemort don't deserve the fate that was to be unleashed upon them. Voldemort believes that the ways of fate and magic are somewhat impossible to understand – if not unworthy of the importance given to them – but this was not expected. The fates had already played with them long enough; they should be given their retribution.

"Why?" Harry decides to gather more information, because he does not understand what is going on.

"I believe that twin souls cannot destroy each other. The universe won't allow it," is the reply, but for Harry it means a lot. He forces himself to stay calm. He knows that Voldemort is paying attention to the conversation.

"You mean like soul mates?" he asks tightly.

"Yes, Harry exactly like that," Dumbledore says amiably.

"But we hate each other," Harry replies. He doesn't understand.

"It has nothing to do with your feelings or your logic."

Harry hears someone – probably Snape – mutter something about 'romantic fools', 'Gryffindor idealism' and 'Muggle idiocy'. He forces his mind to return to the main issue.

"Is that why he couldn't kill me when I was a baby?"

"Perhaps Harry, it is a distinct possibility," Dumbledore considers. "And that's exactly why he chose you, he recognised your magic. It is amazing when two souls find one another in this crazy universe―"

"Professor, do consider just whom are you talking about," Harry suggests dryly. Dumbledore smiles sadly again.

"It is a pity," he says.

"That's all very good, Dumbledore, but how do we get out of here?" Voldemort intervenes.

He does not wish to ponder over such subjects as soul, love and forgiveness; he wishes to solve this chaos and not be forced into the same room as Harry Potter. Besides, the magic of the house is driving him insane. The need to erase his darkness is getting stronger and he cannot dismiss it anymore. Harry's presence is a catalyst and Voldemort feels incapable of thinking properly. He chooses silence.

"You may need to match your intentions if you ever wish to get out of there," Dumbledore explains.

"What? But we do!" Harry exclaims, affronted. "I want out and he wants out; what's the problem?"

"Harry," the Headmaster interrupts sympathetically. "You may think you do, but perhaps you don't. You know what will happen to Tom if you kill him. Do you wish him that fate?" Harry's mouth snaps shut, surprising Voldemort―

With that surprise a pang of pain shots through his chest; it was only for a moment, but he blanches and stops breathing. He cannot identify what had hurt but he knows whatever it is, it's crucial to remain on living; his heart is still hyperactive from such a shock and he has trouble evening out his breath . . . It hurt so damn much. Voldemort is scared. He does not feel immortal. He feels loneliness―

Pain shots through Voldemort once again. It takes all of his willpower not to scream. He tightens his hand around the back of the chair he's standing against and breaths in and out rhythmically. He kneels on the floor.

In front of the fireplace, the discussion proceeds.

"This is just one of my ideas. However―"

"―like your other ones, is going to get me knee deep in shit," Harry mutters. Dumbledore ignores it.

"I meant to say that I'll keep researching." There is a disapproving frown in Dumbledore's forehead and Harry looks slightly pouty.

It is too much for Voldemort and he starts to laugh . . .

It is not funny. He is sharing a room with the only wizard that can kill him. They hate each other, a deep, intrinsic hatred. Voldemort is dark and Harry Potter is light. It's not funny that they are twin souls, and it is not funny that they are not allowed to hurt each other: one of them has to die. It's not funny that he is feeling is sanity slip away from him. Voldemort laughs harder. The white magic is getting on his nerves, it itches and it makes him unable to focus, he's hysterical, but he cannot help it – and he laughs.

How long has it been since he laughed sincerely for the last time? He doesn't think he has ever done such a thing―

The pain returns and this time he really screams.

Harry's head snaps to him and Dumbledore is ignored, but Voldemort doesn't see it.

It's so bloody painful. It's so much worse than anything he has ever experienced, the stray Avada Kedavra that hit him when he tried to kill Harry Potter, the Cruciatus, everything – oh, good gods, it's so painful . . . His screams get higher . . . It feels like his heart his being ripped from his chest and that some force is pulling and stretching him and compressing him until he cannot feel anymore – but the numbness does not last, he can't, his very own soul his being ripped from his body and glued together from high above – it hurts and stray memories threaten to infiltrate is mind and he does not want them, they are weaknesses―

But at the same time, laughing feels so good that he does not stop and the pain gets worse and he laughs harder and the pain gets worse and he loses his eyesight and he cannot hear and he cannot feel, every nerve on his body hurts – he is not normal, he is a monster, he deserves the pain, he is a shadow, he's lonely, he's unloved―

And the pain! . . .

Harry is staring at Voldemort completely dumbfounded. He's scared. It's scary seeing Voldemort so lost . . . He truly looks insane . . . He is in pain and Harry does not know what to do. The screams are getting on his nerves and his instinct orders him to help, but it is Voldemort and he doesn't know what to do – he wants Voldemort dead, but then he doesn't and it's really confusing and the screams don't let him think.

Before Harry moves, Voldemort mercifully loses consciousness.

-xXxXx-

Voldemort wakes up and he doesn't recognise the room he is in.

It doesn't matter; he knows he is still trapped in this godforsaken dimension where his outstanding magic abilities matter very little. So many years spent trying to be better, stronger and to live up to his Slytherin inheritance and this is where he ends. Lost and powerless. His past haunts him. His future haunts him. Harry bloody Potter haunts him.

It's a bedroom; probably one of the closed doors from the hall. There are no windows and the only door is closed and doesn't let any light in. There aren't any candles, but like the drawing room, the room glows by itself – it glows in a cosy yellow. The bedding is blue and silver, like the rest of the room. The walls are blue-ish and the carpet is white. This is room appears to be in great conditions, not like the rotten rest of the house.

Something stirs in his brain – Harry's shock when he sometimes looks at the room he was in . . . Could it be that the house is changing? They are in a Crossroad, their souls are the creators of reality in here . . . Perhaps – it was him who was destroying the peacefulness of reality . . . ?

In a corner, a chaise-long cradles a short boy, who is sleeping a fitful sleep. Voldemort considers the boy: Harry has won; the great Lord Voldemort is dying.

Something in the back of his mind is upsetting him. Something is telling him to move, to get up and move. So, he does. It tells him to motion to the room at the end of the hall.

Voldemort looks at Harry one last time; he moves in a dreamlike haze. Everything seems to make a strange sense; it's like the reality has slowed down for him to catch every little detail. He can recognise the patterns, he can feel what is wrong with their world and he can sense why they were brought here. He knows it's there in his mind, but he can't access the knowledge.

His epiphany is brief and reality – or at least an alternative one – hits him and he shakes the feeling of anxiety away.

The last time he has felt something like this was when he decided to make Horcruxes – it was like a sign from above . . . Perhaps their intention was to tell him how wrong he was – Oh, gods, pain!

He gathers his wits again and proceeds. The mahogany door opens―

It's chilly on the inside – well, it's understandable, because the room shows outdoor scenery and it's snowing – It's a frozen forest; it looks strangely familiar. Someone is moving through the snow and they are wearing black.

Voldemort realises with a start that it is him who is walking in this dreary weather. He is seventeen, just out of Hogwarts; he is searching for an old druid famous for his knowledge of the soul.

The man-in-black trips and falls; nobody is around to help him up, but he doesn't seem to care. He gets up and continues his journey . . . alone.

The room changes―

It's a raven haired seventeen year-old boy now. He too is lonely. It's sad, because the boy seems to care. Harry's two companions – Granger and Weasley, Voldemort thinks – come and talk to him, offer him to come with them, but Harry refuses. It's Christmas and Harry spends it planning the next attack at the dark forces and training with Severus Snape.

Harry is becoming like Snape: too bitter to believe that feeling is worth it.

Voldemort exits the room, carefully calculating the possibilities of the things he learned. He returns to the room and lies down again. He thinks he doesn't understand what the room has told him – your loneliness can only be erased by the fullness of the union with your twin soul.

For some reason, he does not believe this can be of any use for him. After all, Voldemort is still a powerful man. Harry is no different . . . even if they are lonely―

The pain is so intense that he passes out almost immediately.

-xXxXx-

Harry walks into the kitchen.

Voldemort is sitting at the table with his head lying on it. He looks absentminded.

Harry has not been in the same room as Voldemort for the past few days, when he took him to the only bedroom of the house; Voldemort has been in and out of sleep for those same days; he has not get out of bed nor has he given any indication that he was actually alive. Harry didn't impose his presence on Voldemort, but his nights are sleepless and past ignoring the calling that begs him to move to the bed – even if he could not avoid the one that commanded him to stay in the bedroom.

Harry motions to the oven to make himself some tea. Voldemort does not react. He doesn't appear to have noticed Harry. It's fine, because Harry doesn't want to stay in the same room as him for a long period of time, unless it's extremely necessary. He knows they have to try to return to their world, but he doesn't know how he can do it because he can't imagine how to sort his feelings for the evil man.

"Stay," Voldemort whispers. He sounds very unsure and his voice is tight. He's probably in pain. He probably spent a lot of nights alone when he was a child and some of them certainly in pain.

Harry wants to leave, he is scared, but he still fixes a cup of tea for Voldemort and sits at the table. He can't remember the last time he has sat with someone just to keep the other company. Lately, he doesn't care. In fact, he hasn't cared for anything in a long time: his life has been made of duty and convenience; he hasn't felt the urge to do more, to feel more or to give more. Oddly enough, it is Voldemort who brings out his strongest emotions; in here, it would be so easy to change the hatred to something else . . .

Voldemort is looking up at Harry from where he lays his head. Just looking at Harry makes him hurt very much, but it feels so good. He tries to control his body's response to the pain; he's getting used to it and it's starting to fade into the background, but sometimes, there are these seizures. The itch of the darkness has faded.

Voldemort knows that he has felt sorrow for his impetuous actions during Dumbledore's apparition, even if it was just for a fleeting second; that combined with gratefulness for Harry's charity and love has done what decades of victims could not do and now he feels the weight of guilt for each and every single one of them. The darkness is unforgivable; you cannot waver in your resolutions, because if you are weak you cannot do its bidding.

Peter Pettigrew learned that the hard way and was killed by his own hand, literally, and Voldemort is about to face the same fate, even if metaphorically―

The last room of this living hell of a house is calling.

That's when Harry notices that the kitchen has changed . . . Like always, it happens around him and Harry only notices it in the end. However, this time the room has changed for better. It looks lovely. Before it was cold and impersonal, even though it was perfectly equipped; now, it looks homey and Harry swears that he feels the smell of home-cooked food, there's jars of jam and marmalade on the shelves and bread on the counter; with a fleeting smile he notices that the cutlery now has funny patterns instead of being grey like it used to.

Voldemort is looking around, too, and by accident their eyes lock.

Pain, pain, pain, pain . . .

Harry turns away immediately. It physically hurts Voldemort, but he does not turn his gaze; he rejoices in the sight that is Harry sitting at the dinner table with him. Could he have had this with anyone – preferably the boy – if had tried, instead of hiding in the shadows?

Pain, pain, pain, pain . . .

"We better go, we are being called," the older wizard says. Harry doesn't look up, but he nods.

They move through the house silently. Harry walks ahead and it is him who opens the door. They stand side by side waiting for this time lesson.

The room changes immediately―

Lord Voldemort is sitting in his throne in the dining room of the old Malfoy Manor. Faceless Death Eaters pass by and they address their leader and they bring victims and they kill them. The thrill of murdering and controlling and raping and torturing is gone, Voldemort feels nothing; it is not good enough, he needs more, but what more can he do to his poor victims?

He owns the world – Wizarding and Muggle – but nobody is at his level, nobody understands his ideas or his ideals, he is too smart for them and too powerful for them to approach. Not even the satisfaction of fucking his willing servants is good for him. Eventually he gives up altogether.

These are not his friends – family. They never were and he loathes them so much . . .

He is alone and he gets more alone with each passing day; eventually he stops counting the days. They are all the same for someone who has all the days until the end of the world.

They don't speak, but they lean against each other; they do not touch, but they feel the heat of another body close to them. Harry thinks it's sad what the room shows. It changes―

A red-headed woman runs to greet her husband when he gets home. Five children follow her, yelling and shrieking and hopping around their father. Said man nods and answers their questions with monosyllabic sentences. He walks past them and closes himself in his office. There are piles of files in the desk; he brings his work home.

He does his duty. He provides for his wife and children. He keeps the wizarding world safer on daily basis. He does his duty. The rest is unnecessary.

Harry recognises this man better than he recognises the fourteen year old boy. At least, this man has the same eyes Harry has; Harry can believe that this raven haired man is himself better than he could believe the fourteen year old boy was.

They are pushed out of the room and the mahogany door closes itself with a loud bang.

Harry and Voldemort stare at the door for a while, trying to make sense of what it was shown to them – you are empty; this is what awaits you . . .

It is too much.

Voldemort's senses are on fire . . . he is being burned from the inside out as his body trembles and hurts and the pain is bigger than ever.

It's too much – too much – it hurts – love, fear, sadness, regret, remorse―

It's over.

-xXxXx-

It's only by sheer willpower that he keeps on walking. He does not want to be alone with Voldemort again.

He opens the bedroom door. Voldemort is exactly where he left him hours ago. He is propped against the pillows on the bed, looking at the ceiling. His red eyes are empty – but not the 'empty' of days ago; this is the kind of empty that Harry felt when he learned about the prophecy or when Severus Snape was revealed to be a spy: it's the kind of when you are feeling so many emotions that you don't know in which to focus.

Then he notices Harry in the doorway and his eyes change. He starts to Occlude.

"Do you eat?" Harry blurts out. Voldemort looks at him as if he's not really seeing him and his eyes acquire an amused glint.

"Now, I do," he answers with a seductive smirk.

Harry understands that something has changed, and if that answer hasn't given the indication, the straight-slightly-turned-upwards nose and less angular face are a screaming sign. Voldemort's figure is changing. He's still pale and bald, but he looks human now – he looks like he is about twenty; approximately the time when he broke his soul for the first time. The change happened so slowly over the last few days that it took Harry a while to realise. Now, he does and it is unsettling.

Harry decides that he is going to help Voldemort – Tom Riddle.

He thinks he understands Dumbledore a bit better now.

Harry should not help Voldemort, he should not feel sorry for him, he should not help him, but he can . . . and Tom Riddle needs it. Voldemort does not deserve it, but Tom does and it is Tom that stands in front of Harry now. Harry is ignoring all the things Voldemort has done, his evil soul, his broken heart and insane mind, because he can . . .

Just like Dumbledore ignored his ethics, his heart and his ideals to bring down the great threat that was Voldemort.

Harry has to do the same if he wants to help Voldemort and his blasted heart – that he tries to ignore so often – is screaming to help; Harry cannot deny anymore that he has a saviour complex that he simply can't ignore. If Harry has the power to do so, he has the responsibility to do so.

"What happen to you?" His mouth appears to be out of control. He settles himself on the end of bed. Tom regards him with curiosity and an eagerness that unsettles the boy―

Pain shots through him, but it's feeble. He winces internally, but his self-control doesn't let Harry see this. He considers the teen in front of him. Harry must've found himself a noble reason to give assistance . . . Whatever the reason, Tom is going to take advantage of it―

He screams. Gratefulness – denied or not – is an emotion too strong for his still frail soul.

"I'm dying," he says. Harry pales.

"Why?"

"Because of you," is the answer. It is not mean or hurtful, it's the truth. Harry looks confused. Tom does not elaborate.

"Why did you do it?" Tom knows that Harry is talking about the Horcruxes.

"I did not wish to die," Tom replies.

"You've broken yourself," Harry muses. "You tarnished the only thing that would make this life worth living."

"Perhaps, but I must say that now I believe that only those who have experienced love know why it's worth protecting it," Voldemort tells Harry. "The innocence, too, is something that should be treasured," he locked gazes with Harry. "Now I realise my mistakes."

"Why?"

"You showed me that."

"I destroyed them," the boy confesses.

"I know, you told me that already." Tom is amused. Harry does not see where is the fun in that.

"You are dying because you felt remorse?"

"Yes."

"But if I destroyed your Horcruxes, your soul is lost forever . . ."

"There is a Muggle religion that believes a man has to earn his soul," Tom explains and for moments he looks like the brilliant boy who attended to Hogwarts. "A man that has not earned a soul cannot move on to the afterlife," he continues. "Even moronic and meagre as they are, not all the Muggles are brainless . . ." Harry frowned at the insult. Tom smirks: it's too easy if Harry takes all the baits sent his way. Tom concludes his lecture, "I've earned my soul back."

"By feeling remorse?"

"Yes, basically―" he considers the boy for a moment. "― by proving myself human."

"Guilt, remorse, regret are human emotions," Harry ponders. He considers Tom, "Have you ever fallen in love?"

"For eighty years I thought I was incapable of doing so," is the answer. "But lately, perhaps, I have been proven wrong?" he phrased it as a question.

Harry pales again when the meaning of the words finally settles in. He is frightened and it's understandable. Love that deep is frightening. Voldemort does not delude himself by believing he deserves even the boy's pity, let alone anything else, but in this place – where the good and evil have no importance and when only the purity of your soul matters – he knows that he has one chance to heal himself and heal the boy.

Their fates might change.

Harry hasn't move. Tom accepts that as recognition. Harry knows what he wants and he is willing to give it. The boy doesn't look like he wants it, too, but at this point Tom really doesn't care: he needs Harry at least once, since nobody else would've been good enough. The pain has dulled but it's still there and it's strong enough to remind him what is being returned to him.

Tom pushes the covers back and crawls to Harry. The boy tenses, but he does not move.

Tom straddles Harry's legs. He bends his head over and presses his lips against the boy's. Their heartbeat gets impossible fast.

Harry feels the thrill of the forbidden and his mind gets lost in the feelings of being pressed intimately against another man; nothing feels quite like this. It is surreal. Harry has imagined this so many times over the last few of days and now that is happening, it is better and electrifying, exciting and terribly arousing. And Tom – oh, Tom! – It's unbelievable how good it feels to be this synchronised with someone else – heart, body and soul.

Tom doesn't believe this. How has he spent eighty years alive, but not living? What was he thinking? For a day of kissing like this, death would've been worth it. Harry is everything he needs now.

The kiss deepens.

A silky tongue makes its way into Tom's mouth – Oh, good lord! Tom!

'Teenagers!' They only seek instant gratification. Tom intends on making this last to the point when Harry will come untouched. He allows Harry to take control of the kiss long enough to tease the boy, but then he takes charge of their activities.

"Does this feel good, little Harry?" he asks. "The darkness has its appeal, has it not?"

Harry's hands are clutching to the duvet under his body and he will not dare to touch Tom without permission. Tom lets it go for now, but his hands trail down the slender body and they slowly make their way under the hem of the boy's shirt; he encircles Harry's waist. The skin is heated and the muscles are tense. Tom smirks into the kiss, while he twists his tongue just the way to make Harry's body thrust upwards and the boy moans. His young lover will relax soon enough.

Swiftly, Harry's shirt his pulled over his head and thrown to the floor. Harry blushes the sexiest shade of red. Tom gets impossibly aroused at the sight. He leans back and pulls the raven-haired boy too, causing him to fall on top of Tom; they never break the kiss. One strong thigh insinuates itself between Harry's legs and it rubs against Harry's quickly growing erection – Fuck! Tom! – Tom uses is other leg as leverage and switches their positions, pressing Harry against the mattress with his weight.

He pulls back from the kiss to look at the pure creature that allows him between his legs. Harry looks light-headed and Tom feels himself blush, too, from desire for this boy. Tom feels himself losing control.

"I think I rather like you like this, my sweet Harry," the Dark Lord says. Harry doesn't care as long as he does not stop talking. "Under me, panting and giving yourself freely . . ."

Tom is rutting against the boy's hipbone and bends down and he thrusts his tongue deeper and faster into Harry's mouth; he pulls Harry's pants down with one hand while the other reaches down to touch him. His hand closes around Harry's cock and Tom tugs on it twice – Oh, yes, more! – He pulls back and sheds his clothes quickly, then he pulls Harry's briefs from the boy's feet.

Harry blushes when he is exposed to Tom's greedy eyes. The man takes a moment to admire his prize, but his erection his screaming for release. He covers Harry's body with his own and thrusts against Harry's crotch; Harry thrusts back and he gasps as he looks into Tom's eyes. Green and red. Tom leans in and kisses Harry hungrily; Harry closes his eyes to enjoy the feelings cursing through his body, but Tom wants to relish in seeing Harry's face contort in pleasure.

The room smells of arousal and of their mixed scents; it's stirring to feel Tom Riddle's personal odour clenching to his body . . . And the sounds, Tom's grunts and possessive growls and lovely moans . . . and Harry's own panting . . . Harry is not a vocal lover by the looks of it, even though he's willing to submit and be slowly and thoroughly possessed by Tom . . . It's arousing and intimate―

Tom wants more. He wants to taste more; he's so hard that hurts and he wants to feel Harry's hot cock in his mouth. He breaks the kiss and moves down to Harry's throat: he bites and licks and sucks violently – Oh, good heavens! Tom, please. – He leans back on his heels and he lets his gaze trail Harry, his hands follow . . . the soft neck, now bruised, the strong chest; his hands close around Harry's ribs; he lets his thumbs press Harry's nipples.

"Ngnh!" Harry lets out a choked cry.

Enthralled, Tom bends his head and laps at the pink nubs. Harry thrusts forcefully into his belly, and he arches his chest into Tom's mouth, begging for more.

"Are you pretending you are with someone else, little Harry?" the Dark Lord asks callously, hiding his insecurity behind his snarky tongue. Harry seems to understand this, because his dashing green eyes soften and he gives Tom a simply – beautiful – reassuring smile. Who has ever tried to reassure Tom Riddle?

"Only you," the boy says. Tom cannot do anything other than believe in Harry's words with all his soul.

The Dark Lord continues down . . . he trails the abs, he fucks the belly button with his tongue and he reaches the leaking erection―

Oh, yes, Harry!

The feel of another in his mouth is so satisfying! . . . Tom loosens his jaw and throat and lets Harry thrust at his will. Oh, and Harry does. Tom grunts every time the tip of Harry's erection hits the back of his throat. He wants this; he wants Harry to fuck his mouth like this. He can taste the pre-cum, Harry is close. The movement is violent now and his own cock is starting to throb and twitch as well.

Harry's balls constrict and Tom quickly grabs the base and squeezes. Harry sobs at the lost orgasm.

Tom proceeds. He smirks and puts his hands in Harry's waist to still him and stop him from thrusting.

He lets his hands trail back, run the buttocks – Harry tenses – the inner thighs, the back of Harry's knees. He pushes Harry's legs up to the boy's chest and spreads them apart, exposing him. Harry props himself on his elbows and looks down. He is blushing, but he cannot look away; he wants this and he wants it all. Their eyes lock. Slowly, gently, Harry covers Tom's hands on the back of his knees with his own. Their eyes are still locked. Tom retreats his hands and Harry keeps his legs up and pressed against his chest. Tom's spreads Harry's arse cheeks. The tight entrance is twitching and silently begging to be fucked.

Tom leans down again and closes his mouth around Harry's hole. His tongue makes its way out and leisurely penetrates the teen. Harry screams and arches his upper body from the bed. Tom does it again. Harry rocks his head and begs – Please, do it! Do it! – One pale hand joins the mouth and presses inside the heat of Harry's body; two long fingers made their way inside and they curl searching for something . . . something―

Harry chokes back a cry.

Tom caresses that spot manically and Harry sobs in pleasure.

"Has anyone seen you like this, my darling?" the man drawls. Harry's is pure, he knows it. Nobody else has touched this body. Harry's is firstly being claimed by him. It's an overwhelming thought. "Has anyone . . . ha . . . made you feel on fire from t-the inside? Has anyone fucked . . . fuu . . . you with their f-fingers, m-mouth, c-cock? Has any girl made your hips . . . ha . . . snap forward like you are making mine?" he taunts between sharp intakes of breath.

Once Harry's entrance is loose enough, Tom pulls back and crawls upwards in the bed until his eyes are at the same level as Harry's. He wants to know what his actions are doing to the boy. He props himself on all fours. Harry's arms shot up, curl around Tom's neck and pull him down, receiving him with an open mouth and a wicked tongue.

Tom cannot lose himself, so he breaks the kiss and traces his path down again. He swallows Harry's cock at once, while his fingers scissor Harry's entrance. Harry fucks his mouth passionately. Tom looks up and sees Harry's tongue darting out to wet his lips; the boy brings two fingers to his own mouth and introduces them in, letting his tongue feel the pressure of his own touch―

With a growl, Tom comes on the beddings . . . He cries around Harry and the vibrations send Harry over the edge. He is unable to help his scream and shots his seed down Tom's throat, riding the hot waves of pleasure Tom has given him.

The man pulls out and sits back. He looks at Harry, who lazily opens his own eyes and returns the hungry gaze, green eyes dark with lust and pleasure and desire and blissful satisfaction. The boy wants more.

"Do you want something on your mouth, little Harry?" Tom whispers lustily. "Do you want me in your mouth?" Harry groans wantonly and nods tightly. Tom smirks.

They feel themselves harden once more.

"Or do you want me in somewhere else?" This time Harry outright cries; he arches his back into Tom's body. Very accurately, Tom takes that as confirmation.

The man bends down and nibbles on Harry's lips. Harry returns the touch. It's soft, it's slow but it's not any less ravenous than it should. Harry tilts his head up and sucks Tom's tongue into his mouth. It's good; he wants to taste their mixed flavours.

Tom moves up and, propped in his long, strong arms, he grounds his hips to Harry's.

Carefully, the Dark Lord aligns himself with Harry's entrance, teasing it, slicking it with pre-cum. The raven-haired teen feels hot where Tom touches, he wants to push himself up and impale himself at once, but Tom is in control of that – and he's being purposefully slow, evilly slow with that evil smirk of his. Harry lifts his chest and rubs it against Tom's, who closes his eyes in an attempt to calm himself and prevent from thrusting into Harry ferociously.

He pushes himself in. Harry is still riding the aftermath of his first orgasm and his muscles are relaxed and eager.

"Push against me, my love, it will be easier," Tom says.

It's easy to bury himself to the hilt in Harry's tight heat. The raven-haired boy turns his wide eyes to the ceiling and he pants and breathes forcefully, while slowly, unconsciously, rocks his hips upwards.

Tom wants nothing more than to pound Harry into the mattress, but he doesn't and he gives Harry time to adjust to the feeling of being this full.

"Please," Harry whispers and it's spoken so quietly that Tom almost misses it amongst their panting and Harry's shy moaning. He pulls back a bit and pushes back in. Harry sobs. The boy's knees fall to the side; Harry feels so open, so exposed, but he wants more. He pulls his legs up again and hooks his knees on Tom's arms beside his chest.

Tom flushes at the wantonness of Harry, but he appreciates it and starts to thrust in the earnest, willingly and wantonly pleasing his young lover the best he can and knows how.

Harry doesn't want to cry out and moan aloud, but he cannot help it. Tom is being so thorough and every thrust at his prostrate sets him on fire. He pulls his lover down for a mind-blowing kiss. Tom is frowning in concentration, but he obliges and twists his tongue gently against Harry's, gladly receiving the boy's screams of appreciation.

Tom pulls back and looks straight into Harry's eyes. Green and red. It's arousing, it's exciting. The pressure gets higher. Tom fucks faster, harder and longer. Harry's throat is sore from crying out every time is sweet-spot is abused. The older man uses Harry's legs as leverage and he leans back while his hips snap forward wildly.

It's good, it's exhilarating and it gets better and faster and harder and it's so fucking good to have someone thrusting into his body like this, Harry is giving himself up and they are fucking with abandon―

"Oh, gods, yes!" Tom shouts as he comes thickly between Harry's legs and Harry screams and he lets himself go, encircling Tom's neck with his arms, crossing his ankles behind Tom's back and closing his thighs around his lover's hips, bringing him closer than ever before.

Tom leans down and presses a lingering kiss to Harry's lips.

"My Harry," the man whispers very quietly. "You are mine." Harry pants, cradling Tom's cheek in his palm. They look at each other. Green and red.

"Yours, I'm yours."

-xXxXx-

They don't fall asleep.

They stay there, lying side by side, too scared to think about the implications of what they have just done and said. They don't touch, there's no need to, even though they want it; they want to feel close again.

Tom gets up first.

He doesn't have much time and he certainly isn't going to stay here and risk spoiling this wonderful – precious – memory. He walks into the bathroom, the division in front of the bedroom. He takes a shower and he redresses himself again. He moves to the drawing room and sits in front of the fireplace, clutching to his chest and waiting for his heart to stop. His head falls to the side and he doesn't move. What would be the point?

Then, he lets himself think.

He can feel the love – care – sympathy – pity – lust – mercy – regret – cursing through his body. It's wonderful to be this full! He is grateful for it and for Harry's gift. He feels like his sins have been atoned and the only thing he had to do was to fall in love with that short – beautiful, intense, pure – boy. Tom Riddle is feeling too much. 'I never felt before, why is that?' he questions and answers himself.

Tom Riddle was trapped.

He was always trapped. His genetics, his upbringing, his own inconsequential thinking and his wishes of greatness trapped him into the empty shell it was his previous self. He believes that the only reason that has changed is because he was brought here – a place full of raw magic, white magic – in this place, you wear your soul on your face and it's the only thing that matters.

Your soul is the only thing you take from this life.

There's a whispering noise at the door. Tom turns around and he sees Harry, already showered and dressed, standing in the doorway as if waiting for permission.

"You look very pale," Harry comments, but Tom knows he wants to know what is going to happen now. He tells the truth. He wants sympathy; he wants Harry to feel sad with his death, to mourn for him. It's selfish, but he doesn't care.

"I don't have much time," he says. Harry's eyes softened with sad resignation. He nods. Tom sees a single tear, but he does not comment.

Harry motions to the couch and sits beside Tom; he puts a hand on top of Tom's and lets his head fall to the older man's shoulder. Tom takes a deep intake of breath at the feeling. It's not good enough, it's not close enough, it's not memorable enough―

There's is a shuffling noise in the unnatural silence of the room as Tom shifts and pushes Harry to lie on his back; Tom lays his head on the other's chest, listening carefully to that accelerated heart beat, clutching Harry's shoulders from behind. Nothing could've prepared him for the feeling of two cold hands encircling his own shoulders and the tightening of a lover's embrace.

"I will cry for you, Tom," Harry whispers as a promise, saying his name aloud for the first time.

Tom feels himself relax and he closes his eyes. He wants to say that he has fallen in love with Harry, but that would just be cruel – for both of them.

Harry wants to scream at him not to close his eyes, but he knows it is useless.

In the world, there is no place for such a diabolic creature, but as long as his soul has been mended there's still hope for him. Tom will move on and one day Harry is going to see him again. He feels so happy to know that love will be the last thing Lord Voldemort feels in this life. There's an ironic balance in this. His life was created from the delusion of love, but it ends by the real sentiment.

Tom can hear Harry's heart beating fast and feel the gentle movements of Harry's chest while he breathes; he can smell Harry close to him, he can feel the boy's soft skin against his own; he can―

The world changes once more.

-xXxXx-

Harry has been gone for seven days. Ron and Hermione – who are sitting in a conjured couch, attentive to any changes in the Circle – startle at the heavy feeling of powerful magic hanging in the air. Dumbledore, whose magic and blood keeps the Circle running, comes striding into the room along with Snape, wands drawn and ready for any eventuality.

A white light soars through the Requirement Room, deriving from the Calling Circle at the centre.

The blood used to draw the circle boils and glows―

Suddenly, Harry's senses are invaded by familiar sensations: the cold air of Hogwarts' halls, the smell of stone, of rain, of the thousands of tapestries that decorate the castle . . . the warmth of a fireplace, the chatter of his two best friends in that tone used only in a time of crisis . . . potions and scotch . . . tea and lemon drops. He is aware of the missing heartbeat in the body on top of him and the weight is all but crushing him.

Fawkes sings a sad melody.

Harry clutches tighter to the lifeless body of Tom Riddle.

His eyes are still closed and he waits for the explosive reactions that are about to come. His cheeks are wet and he doesn't know when he has started to cry, but now it is impossible to stop and violent sobs rack his body; the dark shadow in the back of his mind is gone, but somehow it feels cold and empty without it.

"Harry, my sweet boy," Dumbledore says with an infinite sadness and he kneels near the two man. Harry cries harder at the familiar words. The old Headmaster touches Tom's neck with one finger. Tom is dead. A tear makes its way from the twinkling blue eye through the hollow cheek. Dumbledore wants to take Tom's body away, but he doesn't want to trigger Harry's explosive reaction sooner than necessary.

There is not love. Their feelings and memories and experiences are what make them who they are. Harry will not be able to forget and forgive as easily in this world. Harry's sadness and desperation are real, but he will deny them. Dumbledore knows he will refuse the bond again and that he will feel sick and disgusted by the absolution of Voldemort's soul.

Hate is so powerful; it rules the world and the men . . . However it is love that men take to their graves . . . Odd.

"Is that―" Hermione starts, horrified. Ron is sickly pale.

"Yes," Harry answers curtly, finally opening his arms and letting Dumbledore take the Dark wizard away.

"He's―" Ron is about to make a terribly tactless comment about how Voldemort looks human. Snape interrupts.

"―whole."

Harry's eyes cross Dumbledore's and in that moment there is understanding and harmony in their thinking. They understand more about raw magic – such as love, remorse, mind, death and grieve – than anyone else, even the Unspeakables. Somehow, every tragedy brings something indefinitely precious to those who survive.

Harry knows things now, things about the very own nature of a man. It's precious.

-xXxXx-

Their happiness is astoundingly expressive. Parties, celebration rituals, loyalty vows and a very absurd nomination for the Minister position follow Harry Potter. The threat is gone and their hero deserves to be worshipped.

Harry endures it at first, but soon he retreats to his privacy behind closed doors and only allows his friends and surrogate family to come to visit.

He's trying to make peace with what he has learned in the past few days and for some reason he cannot stand being around Ginny. She reminds him to much of what he could've become and what he has lost. The poor girl endures it, because she knows it's not her fault and she is strong enough to give Harry his space and give him up if it comes to it.

All of them respect Harry enough not to ask what had happen in the Crossroad.

Harry can think only about it.

- Twenty-one years later -

The full moon his high in the sky. The moonlight casts grey shadows in the Little Hangleton's graveyard. A cold summer wind can be felt. The air is heavy with magic.

A raven-haired man in his forties moves through the grass.

The keeper recognises him; he has been paid years ago to close his eyes each year on May, 9th since this man comes here every year on this date. It is fine by the keeper: the man does not cause any sort of disarray, he just wishes to visit one grave. Perhaps the man is some sort of celebrity and he cannot visit this grave in daylight.

The keeper thrives on imagining potential scenarios to this man's mysterious behaviour. He has entertained his children and their friends countless times with made-up stories about the dark-haired man – who is in truth an evil sorcerer and has lost his intended maid by accident thanks to a good warrior and he cannot feel love anymore so he comes here to remember what it feels like.

The keeper is wrong.

The raven-haired man is Harry Potter.

Harry sits on the ground in front of an onyx stone. He puts a black tulip in front of the stone. The epigram glows white in the darkness.

Far away, a werewolf howls to his goddess.

Harry remembers Dumbledore's words when he learned that Snape was teaching his young charge how to detach himself from his victims – "Your greatest strength is your heart, Harry. You may think that dehumanising the people you kill is easier than feel the pain of their deaths. But it's that pain that makes Lord Voldemort unable to understand you and ultimately, it is your ability to love and care that is going to warrant our victory."

Albus Dumbledore is always annoyingly right. Harry didn't have a special skill, superior intellectual ability or an invincible secret weapon. He just had to forgive and love. Harry is unable to realise how special it is to be able to forgive, understand and love someone after being caused so much suffering by that same person . . . Harry remembers Tom and he still feels the love cursing through him . . .

Harry stays there until the first rays of sunshine break through the horizon.

Like every year, tears run freely through his cheeks; he wipes them gently and gets up. Like in every year, he takes one last lingering look at the stone. He touches it as a good-bye. Silently, he exits the graveyard.

It says in the onyx stone – 'Here lays Tom Riddle, Unloved and Forgotten.'

It's a lie, but nobody cares. What matters one person's love? 'Peace and absolution, that's what . . .' Harry thinks bitterly.

Harry will go home to his lovely spouse and three children to celebrate the holiday in his honour. Hermione and Ron will be there, just like the rest of the Weasley family . . . Nobody ever asks where Harry goes and he wouldn't have answered if they did.

He will love, care, work hard, enjoy himself and just live . . .

. . . Until the next May, 9th.

THE END

Afterword―

So, I chose Voldemort/Harry. Well, first of all, no sexy meaningless one-night stands for my characters . . . unless there is a sequel. That being said, there was no way, I would make them shag and then have one of them kill the other. Besides, Voldemort is evil. Even if in the books, JKR did not elaborate his evilness, he was still a terrorist. I do not intend pardoning psychopath murderers. Also, you may have noticed that I did not mention whom Harry is married to. It might be Ginny or not, your choice. I don't believe it matters to the story.