disclaimer: Harry Potter does not, never will, nor have I ever desired to own it. It is the property of J. K. Rowling and her affiliates. This is not for anything other than personal amusement.

A/N: A short prologue, and it will remain strictly in the 'T' rating, because I said so.

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'For certain is death for the born
And certain is birth for the dead;
Therefore over the inevitable
Thou shouldst not grieve.'

— Bhagavad Gita (250 BC - 250 AD), Chapter 2

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~ v ~

The Waking of the Ghost
Stone Slab

~ v ~

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"Harry, Harry... Harry Potter, come to visit my... lonely grave? How sweet of you," the ghost of Lord Voldemort sneered, its pale face twisted into something ugly and nauseating.

The ghost had the same, warped qualities that the man had had at the time of his death — it looked more terrible than it ever had, with tense shoulders and jagged angles. Oddly, while the ghosts of Hogwarts were utterly devoid of color, Voldemort's specter had color, and Harry could see that it still had the same bloodied eyes. They were narrowed at that moment in suspicion and practiced curiosity. He wondered why the phantom hadn't passed on to the other side, or how, in fact, it even existed at the moment. As far as Harry was concerned, all the horcruxes had been destroyed, and so, the Dark Lord was supposed to be in a torturous state of limbo. Not that being trapped as a ghost wasn't torturous for a man who lusted after living forever. Living, being the key word. Not this state of dead-alive. If the ghost hadn't been dressed in a sleek, dark suit, Harry was positive that he could have seen every bone, every flaw in that thing's body.

It had long limbs, long fingers, and the same ruined face. Harry was deeply unnerved by the sight of it.

He had come to visit the grave for no certain reason at the time, in a mix of rebellion against his friends and his thought that it was rather sad that no one would (willingly) visit the tombstone, which the ghost was perched upon, fingers wrapped around the stone. It had a smug smirk, one which Harry could not begin decipher the reason behind, and its legs were crossed before it. It wasn't wearing any shoes, Harry noted absently.

He honestly didn't have a reason to be there at the grave of his fated enemy, just as he hadn't a reason when he insisted upon the man having a proper burial, against the protests of the general public. He shook his head, feeling the spirit's unblinking gaze upon his face. He felt the faint warmth rise to his cheeks, mentally cursed, and met the eyes with a fierce glare. Harry was not expecting to find Voldemort's face so close to his own, or to be incapable of looking away from the dark, murderous stare. He nearly contained his flinch when the ghost's cold, long fingers touched his face, swallowing his heat. Harry took a deep, shaking breath and took a step away from the creature.

It looked after him with a peculiar expression, before it frowned.

"Why — why are you a ghost?" Harry asked, tightening his fist around the bouquet of white chrysanthemums in his hand, "I thought... that... you couldn't come back."

Voldemort hissed suddenly, rearing his head back as though he had been offended, "Why should I tell you, when you would just try and use that information to get rid of me? Do you think I would tell you even if I knew? Just so you could send me back to that hell? Do you think me a fool? I know you and your games, Potter, you and your tricks."

He blinked at the amount of rage in the simple accusations, before he said, "I do not — "

"I don't want your pity, Potter!" the ghost seethed, clenching his hands into fists, backing away from the young wizard, mad eyes sealed shut.

Voldemort's ghost was a pitiful creature, Harry realized dully, to the point that it was almost laughable that someone as pretty and proud as Tom Riddle would allow himself to be reduced to such a state. He could clearly see the wear and tear of the world in the way the ghost slouched slightly, despite its rather looming, commanding presence in the graveyard. His eyes were the same glassy countenance, neither reflecting the light, nor showing any life. Harry could see himself reflected on the milky surface, but not at all properly sinking into what lay behind the film. He was fairly disturbed by the concept.

Harry took a deep breath to compose himself; he couldn't exactly hurt the translucent image before him, after all. "Did you know that your horcruxes were destroyed, because if you did, you surely wouldn't have come to that battle, isn't that right?"

"I," the ghost hissed, "felt them, do not doubt it."

"Then why?" he asked, curiosity getting the better of him.

The phantom's shoulders visibly sagged, and it took on an under the weather air as it crept back toward its tombstone. It pressed against the cold stone, as though it wished to sink back into it. The specter buried its face within the palms of its slender, knobby hands and let out a single, nasal sound from the back of its throat. Harry bit his lip as he looked at the dejected form of the ghost. It was a terrible existence, he realized, and he was sure Voldemort felt the same.

Unable to move on, to go to the other side, trapped in the face of his failure. Unable to live, trapped in a non-corporeal form, hardly able to do a thing. Then again, Harry didn't know much about ghosts, so he wasn't sure what they were and weren't capable of. He knew that poltergeists were physical creatures, but nothing about true, dead-alive ghosts. He was so caught up in those thoughts that he nearly missed the muttered words from the creature itself.

"There was only blood... blood, and madness..."

Harry sucked in a loud, hissing breath as he listened on to the half-mad words of a madman.

"...and sometimes, we were not entirely... in control, because the pieces were not all there and... others no longer existed at all, so we were reduced to... blood and madness — " the ghost stopped abruptly with a snarl, drawing himself up so he could train an accusing finger at Harry, teeth bared in an unholy interpretation of a grimace.

"You! You, you are tricking us, are you not? To make us tell you our secretssss," it accused thinly, "This, this is your... 'feelings', is it not? Trying to make us feel them too."

"Or maybe you've just gone off the deep end," Harry snapped before he could stop himself, "Finally able to show just how much of a loon you really are."

Voldemort's ghost let out a low, rumbling sound before it lunged out at Harry, claws slipping right through the Savior's head, causing said Savior to shudder at the sudden chill that enveloped him. His glasses fell, impromptu, to the grass beneath his feet, the lenses slightly cracked and frost bitten. Harry jumped back just in case Voldemort tried anything else funny, but found he did not have to worry that much as the dead-alive Lord was staring at his hand with trepidation. The ghost began to tremble, and this fluttering feeling corresponded within Harry's head, making him scowl something fierce. The ghost retreated back to his tombstone, wrapping his fingers around the dead granite, letting out hisses that Harry could no longer understand. When Voldemort realized the language barrier, he let out one last weak sound, before sitting in front of the grave-marker, arms crossed and eyes pressed close.

He did, however, understand when Voldemort grumbled, "Go away Potter."

Harry frowned, and stepped forward, wary of the single vermilion slit watching his every move. He let the bouquet of white flowers land before the grave of one Tom Riddle before he turned on his heel, and made to leave the ghost to itself and its woes, when a cold brand wrapped itself around his wrist. He blinked once, twice, before staring down at the perplexed face of the Lord, his own expression not much better. Harry sighed, and slunk down into a sitting position so he was across from the ugly creature.

He huffed, "What, Voldemort?"

"The year, what's the date?"

"December 2, 2000 — why does it matter?" Harry questioned, not seeing the point.

"..."

"So you aren't going to tell me? It isn't like you have anything to lose, now," he informed Voldemort, who stared blankly onward.

"Two years," Voldemort muttered to himself, threading his fingers together, "Dead for two years... I wonder, how many of my followers were slaughtered or sent to the Dementors?"

When Harry remained silent, Voldemort's jaw clenched and his fingers strangled an invisible foe, and he seethed, "How many, Potter?"

"You aren't supposed to care about them," Harry replied lamely, avoiding the subject.

"Answer me! How many of my people were slaughtered at the hand of your precious, adoring bootlickers?"

Weakly, he mumbled, "Too many to count."

"Get! Get!" Voldemort howled, taking a swipe at Harry with his cold hands, and Harry stepped away, onto his glasses which snapped beneath his feet. "Begone, Potter! And don't you dare come back! Don't ever — don't ever!"

Numbly, Harry snatched up his broken lenses and quickly disapparated from the graveyard, fearful of what the ghost would do if properly provoked. Nothing physically damaging, he knew, but mentally, he didn't dare think about it. Voldemort had been a skilled Legimens in life, so who said that that skill didn't continue on in his dead-alive state? He landed poorly on the loamy soil of his cottage's garden, a property that he had inherited upon his maturation, and stared down at his broken spectacles. He took a deep, shaking breath, and leaned against the white picket fence. Was he really thinking about going back to Voldemort's grave?

Was he honestly considering returning to keep the wretched ghost company?

No, no... he wasn't.

Voldemort's ghost was rude, and stark raving mad. Hell, the creature didn't even want company, from the sound of things, and was perfectly content to wallow away in its uninformed, dull eternity that it had fermented in for the past two years.

"Ha," he snorted, "The bastard got his immortality after all, just not the way he wanted."

A/N: ... I've been reading too many of Emily Dickinson's poems, apparently. [snort]