A/N: This story may soon be up for adoption if I can't find the other bits, I'll continue it a-fresh if the reviews are good. Basically I was sorting through half-baked scenes on my laptop for my other fictions (which, at a free moment, will be updated when I have time to attempt syntax fixing the documents) The Core Project has been niggling for resurrection along with Saving Harry and I'll see if I can do anything with my Dr. Death fic this coming weekend. While I was having a rummage I uncovered this little gem, which I consider to be my polar (no pun intended) opposite to "Potter Frost" (which is on the update list just after Saving Harry).

I do not own YGO or HP. Slash, undecided pairings. Ignores DH and HBP Severe alcoholism and other nastiness - story may be a twoshot/threeshot depending on response

Chapter One

His body seemed to sway in an almost drunk manner - power drunk he was. The way in which he'd crawled out from the belly of the beast- the Mouth of the Underworld was something to behold. Nicholas Flamel had never even heard of such a thing, in fact, it was something reserved for wizard's myths like the Peverell's encounter with Death in Tales of the Beedle and the Bard. You see, Harry Potter had died.

And yet there he stood, clear as day and as real as you or I. Harry Potter had crawled from the very grasp of Death, and had done what no wizard had ever done. He dared Death to use his scythe to re-open the Mouth of the Underworld, and said that if he could not find a way to get up there and through to the land of the living, Death could claim his soul for all time and have his other two hallows, keep him from his parents, Sirius and all those who had passed on. Death, tantalized at such an offer, accepted. He opened the very skies of the land of the dead, knowing full well that without a wand, and off a mortal plain, he had no powers - he would surely not be able to find a way up to the portal.

And so the floor of the mortal plain shook for such a short moment that almost nobody could have noticed it without doubting whether that actually just happened or if they'd lost their balance. He had donned the wings of something that far evaded Death for countless centuries - without really knowing how he did it.

But Harry Potter came back into the land of living through the wings of a phoenix. And there he stood, in front of a younger Voldemort - Tom Marvolo Riddle in a perfected human form, as real as he was before the green light had hit him in the chest.

"You survived, again!" he hissed, but his widened eyes betrayed the fact he was mentally reeling over it and his wand grip had become loose in sweat.

Harry felt himself welcoming air into his lungs, and looking slightly confused as to what he - or - his soul, had just done.

"You killed me," Tom and Harry were the only ones alive for miles, the grass strewn with fallen wands, blood on single blades and heaved bodies in cold lumps.

"You killed me but I'm back," exhaled Harry slowly, somehow - it seemed that Tom had to know. Voldemort - Tom, had always been one step ahead of the game. He always seemed to know more then Harry did about himself sometimes. So it seemed only logical that his enemy knew now.

"You killed me, I saw Death, I beat him and I came back," he swallowed nervously, if Voldemort knew so much he had to know what was going on.

Voldemort didn't say anything, he observed as the savior realized he had no Elder Wand.. no any wand for that matter, and yet he seemed to emanate the same crisp power that Dumbledore had in his life.

"What does that make me?" he didn't even know if he was human, the green irises reflected a fiery, burning, angry confusion and loss.

Voldemort remained silent - he did not know.

"What does that make me?" the anger poured out in ripples waves of flames that encased the boy from head to toe. His entire body felt hot from his feet up to his face, he didn't have his wand, but this time, he didn't feel like he'd need it. The Dark Lord met his defeat by inextinguishable flames that had swallowed his wand to ashes and seared his fingers and his entire body as the Boy-Who-Lived stalked toward him agonizingly slowly through the hot rippling air that distorted his approaching form. The smell made his stomach turn, but the only thought running through his head was of how this would finally be the end.

The-Boy-Who-Lived became The-Man-Who-Conquered as he watched the form of Tom Riddle fall to his feet in pain, screaming screams that only a man who was burning alive could muster, until Harry came clear in his vision. He too, eclipsed in flames, but not hurt, not stung, not even affected - simply emanating them. Mops of sweat had made his long black hair cling to his face but did little to distort his expression of angry victory. It was enough for Tom Riddle's screams to die on his lips as he could almost feel Death standing behind him as he burned, but remained focused on the boy infront.

His charring lips moved, Harry knelt down toward the burning, melting, dying Dark Lord to hear his very feeble last words. The last look in his eyes before he burned alive totally was a look of fear, of lostness, almost of innocence as he reminded Harry of a more innocent Riddle from the memories of Albus Dumbledore.

"I don't want to die,"

He said feebly, knees drawn to his chest as his eyes drew shut, the magical flames lost all slowness and ignited to full heat, the body becoming unrecognizable in a short space of time - the smell, unbearable.

Yet he could not stop watching until the flames stopped, to be sure it was the end.

He jolted up from his sleep, mopped in sweat, ears ringing from a nightly scream. Harry looked around his dark bedroom wildly and tried to jump himself out of bed but had no strength and merely swung his upper body to the edge of his bed as he felt sick acidity rising from the pit of his stomach, up his gullet and onto his bedroom floor.

He never thought Voldemort's demise would ever haunt him so, but it did. He sighed and felt unconsciousness take him.

All the things from war did and this time there was no Ron, Luna, Neville, Hermione or sane Weasley left to clutch onto. So many of his own had fallen that the pledge to "Never Forget" seemed pointless because he could list off every single person that died in The Battle of Hogwarts and suspected he would be able to do so until he died himself, for the final time.

Harry couldn't bare to stay there anymore, before Bill left to mourn with his family he offered to set Harry up with a friend of a friend's place out of England because the hero was still being asked to do things.

Like, rebuild the war-torn society.

He would if he could rebuild his own mind, but you see, Bill could see something that he and his goblin superior recognized as a little problem. PTSD they called it - Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Even Griphook had been disturbed when Bill explained his reasons for temporary leave - the mourning was acceptable but the state in which the redhead admitted to finding the Savior had been a disturbing mental image. Laying in his own vomit, twitching, clothes half removed as he ran his hands over scars and bruises, crying into the floor.

Pathetic, thought Griphook, but most humans were - however... this one had an excuse, he conceded - and decided to sign Bill's temporary leave papers.

Of course, Odion and Isis had been warned profusely by Bill Weasley of the state Harry was in -they weren't even all that close, but from Bill's begging he was desperate.

Please take him for a little while, he needs to flee. The war did a number on him, please, I wouldn't be asking if I wasn't desperate. Harry was my baby brother's best friend and he needs the help. He's lost more then me. Poor lad's losing his mind.

They valued the cursebreaker for how strong he was, and accepted. So Harry moved into their new residence - in Japan, in a guest room. The boy hadn't actually met them though - Bill had brought him while he was unconscious after one of his little episodes and had carried him up to the guest room over his back with a note by the bed side.

Whilst they were told about Harry's little episodes, there was something that Bill had neglected to mention.

The note contained little more then a sentence or two from Bill explaining that he'd had one of his fits when he'd walked in his attempt to take a nap before he was going to meet the people he was staying with. The note mentioned that he was currently at the Ishtar residence, hence the different bed he'd awoken in and lack of vomit at the side of the bed.

It felt strange, like he was clutching the bed covers of St. Mungos after waking up and having no idea where he was or who the people were around him - yet feeling distinctly safe.

The room he was in was nicer then the smallest bedroom of Privet Drive, but was bereft of anything apart from the bed he was on, plain white curtains with sunlight shining in, a turned off lamp and chest of drawers beside the bed. He glanced and saw his trunk - locked, leaning against the chest of drawers and the door of the room slightly ajar.

Harry let out a short groan of pain as he tried to get out of the bed but clutched his sides as he felt an ungodly clench around his midsection. His body hurt - he must have been writhing again. At this rather in-opportune moment, the door knocked and slowly opened at the sound of someone being awake. A nicely dressed, long-haired, brown-skinned lady came - no, almost seemed to glide into the room, sporting a tray of warm hot chocolate and biscuits.

"Ah, finally awake, you sure know how to sleep the day away young man," said the lady in a naturally smooth voice, like how he imagined his mother would have sounded and with similar grace. If this was a "false wakeup" dream, he'd rather not have left it. It felt like he wasn't in England anymore, like he'd disconnected...and he had.

"S-Sorry to impose on you," Harry wracked his brain for the name "-Miss Isis,"

"Just Isis," corrected the lady gently with a smile, placing the tray on a chest of drawers.

"It must be hard having a stranger occupy your guest room before meeting them, thank you for your hospitality," he said, trying to remember manners of a civilized society. The lady seemed to wave it off with ease and provide a strange graceful comfort.

"Any friend of Bill is a friend of ours, anyway, he told us about you staying quite a while ago, apparently he'd been putting it off until he convinced you," she said with a quirk of her lip "-you can stay as long as you need, child,"

I'm not a child, I'm seventeen!

But the lady looks late twenties so I'll let it slide.

"He told us of your circumstances," the war? "-that you have no living relatives to go back to until things quieten," ah, so she knew about the war but was getting at the fact he was a charity case. Nice.

'Play nice, you're their guest - they're being nice to you for Bill,' his conscience nagged.

"You must be Harry Potter," she said gently "-it's a pleasure to finally have you in our home," she said kindly - a gracious hostess.

It was strange that the Ishtars were so tolerant of a stranger with as many issues as him, who'd be sleeping in their home, in one their beds, in their spare room and eating from their fridge as if it were a hotel service.

"I-" Harry struggled to say something "-thank you. I'll try not to burden you too much, when-" he couldn't hide his wince and clutched his sides tighter.

"Oh my, are you alright?"

"-when I feel like I can walk," he managed "-i'll help around the place, I- I don't know what I'm doing to be honest or how long I'm staying or what's going on,"

The Dark Lord fell so recently...

"Understood," she said "-I brought you some hot chocolate to settle your stomach, you haven't had anything since you got here. Dinner is at five o'clock and my brother should be home by then,"

"Your brother?"

"Brothers," corrected Isis "-I have two, the eldest is downstairs and the other you'll meet at dinner,"

Harry nodded and watched her depart from the room, and softly called out to the almost-stranger.

"Thank you-!" he said again, staring up at the ceiling as he sagged back into the bed and exhaled slowly. Maybe human-kindness wasn't a thing of the past as he'd previously thought.

The young blond was angry - not angry because of the fact there was a stranger in their house but because he was the last to hear about it. Odion winced and looked at Isis, she was always better at explaining and neutralizing this sort of situation.

"-Remember, Bill Weasley mentioned the possibility of having him a while back?" she reminded gently.

"I don't like that Weasley," sneered Marik "-he's one of those annoying pain in the backside cursebreakers that used to keep blundering into our business back home,"

"Well his friend is our guest and you will treat him as such!" said Isis strongly "Harry has no where else to go!"

"Since when were we a homeless shelter?" bit out Marik, Odion shook his head sadly. They weren't biologically brothers but if the Ishtars hadn't taken him in, he'd have been dead in the middle of the desert. He hoped Marik's mother's kindness wasn't lost on him.

"He's been through much Marik, and the cursebreaker's world is still reeling too much to help him," said Isis cryptically.

"Look. Whatever, as long as he stays away from my stuff," growled Marik "-and doesn't come in my room,"

Isis supposed that was the best she'd get from her littlest brother.