Author's Note: My entry for Tomarrydarkspringexchange, written for a prompt by Narcoleptic-Penguin: "Tom Riddle as a child liked to hurt the other children. Tom Riddle as an adult like to have power of others. Voldemort liked to have the world at it's knees for him. Harry Potter had always been an enigma who didn't follow Voldemort's rules. He refused to bow or break. But Voldemort wouldn't give up. He had caught him and imprisoned him. He had killed his friends and allies in front of him. He had destroyed every person the boy had a shred of love for in his heart. One day he would break and admit that the Dark Lord had power over him. He was sure of it. He had to. One day. Basically a Harry-is-caught during the Second War prompt where Voldemort already dwindling sanity starts unraveling at trying to break the boy. Harry has great mental fortitude and often greets him with a smile and calls him Tom like Dumbledore did. He holds onto hope that he will win because he just won't break, it's not in his character. And he's found Voldemort is amusing in an emotionally distant and twisted sort of way."

(I think my prompt sort of ran away with me and ended up rather different from what my prompter requested, but oh well. Anyways, I'm just going to shut up here and let you read the story.)

Shadows Deep

Nobody can ever know, was the first thought that ran through Voldemort's mind as he looked at an appalling mess of blood and entrails spilled over the previously pristine marble floor of the Malfoy Manor. His second thought was one of irritation, of course, because he wasn't a trembling child anymore, trying to hide his stolen trophies from Mrs. Cole. If Rabastan Lestrange had met his death at the end of the Dark Lord's wand, nobody would dare question him. He towered over Rabastan's remains, impassive and proud.

Nobody can ever know, something inside him insisted and if he were a lesser man, he could have shuddered. For it was not the fact that he slaughtered one of his most loyal Death Eaters in an obscenely uncouth manner that filled Voldemort with a motley of almost-fear and almost-shame. What unsettled him was that when he pointed his wand at Rabastan a few moments ago, the curse that he spoke was Crucio.

Voldemort inspected the Deathstick carefully. A sense of slipping, spinning out of control took over him momentarily and red eyes scanned his surroundings, paranoid. Why was he torturing Lestrange? Potter. Of course, it had something to do with Potter.

...still hasn't learned to keep his mouth shut. Taught him a little lesson in respect, My Lord.

The memory only fuelled Voldemort's anger and he faltered in his examination, before abruptly vanishing Rabastan's corpse and sweeping out of the room. Nobody was allowed to touch Potter. As unlikely as it was for the boy to come to any harm, Voldemort needed to see him to make sure.

It was easy to put Rabastan out of his mind as he glided through the hallways towards his would-be greatest conquest. It won't be long now. He sighed softly, thinking about Potter on his knees, green eyes dull and broken. Admittedly, the boy has managed to hold out much longer than Voldemort anticipated but it was ultimately of no consequence. The two of them had an eternity to this game together.

Since the boy's capture two months ago it has become something of a new obsession for Voldemort. Pushing Potter. Bending Potter. Waiting to see Potter break. Even capturing new members of the Order of Phoenix now had a new significance as their lives were merely new means to put some chips in Potter's armour. It didn't bear admitting out loud but in the deepest recesses of his mind Voldemort knew that he was becoming rather addicted to their endless battle of wills, both because of the enticing foretaste of his inevitable victory and because Potter, who wore his heart on his sleeve and couldn't lie if his life depended on it, still was the least predictable person Voldemort met in his life.

It won't be long now, he thought again as he descended the stairs into the clammy darkness of the dungeon. Potter would break soon, he was sure of it.

Seeing the boy gave him a bit of a pause. Potter was standing in his cell in the farthest corner of the dungeon, leaning against the bars. He was breathing heavily and there was blood trickling out of the corner of his mouth but other than that he looked healthier and cleaner than he did a couple of days ago when Voldemort had last seen him. Somebody repaired his old torn robes and apparently helped him wash as well. The Dark Lord hissed in irritation. Narcissa. The witch must have been helping Potter. She would have to be taught a lesson.

"Hello, Harry," Voldemort greeted softly, watching in fascination as Potter's sullen expression cleared abruptly upon seeing him. It was odd, yet oddly satisfying to think that he was the only thing that could brighten the boy up.

Of course, Potter had to break the moment,

"Hello, Tom."

Voldemort tsked, "I see Rabastan didn't teach you nearly well enough." He took out the Elder Wand but didn't point it at Potter. After what happened earlier, he was reluctant to use it on his horcrux.

"Ah, what's a little Crucio between friends?" Potter chuckled even as a shudder wracked his whole frame at the memory.

The dungeon seemed to flicker with spots of darkness around the edges and Voldemort couldn't tell if it was his own fury or Potter's. He closed his eyes for a moment to clear his vision. When he opened them, the boy was staring at him curiously.

"Lestrange had it coming," Potter whispered harshly and Voldemort wondered how he knew. "He came here more often than you, you know? Wasn't very nice about it either."

The room flickered again but this time Voldemort was fairly certain it was his own anger. He kept his tone light, however,

"You should learn to appreciate the company, Harry. It's the only kind you'll ever get, after all."

Potter looked up and their eyes met. You are mine forever, something seemed to sing deep in Voldemort's bones. Potter smiled,

"But I'll always have you, Tom."

"Crucio!" Voldemort cried, forgetting his reservations.

Potter's entire body seized up and he arched backwards like he was about to snap in half. He bit his already bloodied lips to stop himself from screaming but hoarse distorted sounds still tore from his throat. Voldemort smiled.

"Tell me, Harry," he began after cutting the curse and watching the boy crumble on the harsh floor of the dungeon, "what is it that you are fighting for? What are you trying to achieve with this foolery? Are you still hoping that your pathetic Order of Phoenix will come rescue you if you act like a petulant child?" Potter's eyes were closed and he was panting heavily but Voldemort knew that he was drinking in every word. "And what do you think they can do? Stare into your eyes until their dying breaths the way the Longbottom boy did? Whisper empty promises to you like that werewolf you so loved? You remember them, don't you, Harry? How they died right in front of you? Because of you?"

Potter's breathing returned to normal but his eyes remained shut. His face was taut and blank and Voldemort wanted to click his tongue in disappointment. The boy was becoming immune to the mentions of his dead friends. They would need to find new toys to play with.

"How could I ever forget?" Potter replied, his voice gruff from screaming earlier. Frustratingly, he still didn't show an outward reaction.

Voldemort pressed closer to the cell, "Then what do you think your Order can do? Do you honestly think that they can somehow fight me? When I have the whole world at my disposal?"

Lazily, Potter flicked his eyes open, "Who said I'm waiting for the Order of Phoenix? Their fight was lost the moment you took over the Ministry. Perhaps even before that."

Yes.

"Ahh, I knew you could see reason. Tell me Harry, what about your fight? Do you not realize that it was lost the minute you imagined that you, a child, can stand up to Lord Voldemort?"

Potter closed his eyes again, little uncontrollable twitches stealing over his muscles like they usually did after Cruciatus. "My plans were never... that ambitious. I mostly just wanted to be left alone... To have a normal life. I'll never settle for something that mediocre again."

Despite himself, Voldemort stepped closer, intrigued. "You have bigger plans now?"

Potter's rambunctious laughter echoed through the dungeon. Thinking about it later, Voldemort couldn't remember how their conversation ended.

Ever since he was a child, Tom Riddle had always found himself struggling for control. It was the ultimate power – a guarantee that other kids in the orphanage would never hurt him, that his classmates would never laugh at him, that Dippet wouldn't send him back. It was important to bend, break and force people to obey him, to crash, burn and eradicate every obstacle he came across. So Dumbledore could never sniff him out. So people like his father would never dare to reject him again. So death wouldn't take it all away from him.

In all of that Dumbledore had always been the one person who could always revert Tom to being powerless, who could make his control slip through his fingers with a simple magic trick or a knowing smile. Dumbledore would watch him, eyes grave and heavy, and Tom knew, he knew that he was slipping, spinning out of control just seconds away from the fall.

Many years later, it was both terrifying yet strangely fitting that it was Dumbledore who stripped away and dissected Voldemort's protections, who found and nearly destroyed his greatest secret of all. The thought of his horcruxes, one by one broken and taken apart at the hands of the old headmaster, could still make Voldemort tremble in helpless fury. And now his immortality relied solely on the man's apprentice, the boy who helped destroy his precious possessions. Sometimes, in the bleak hours of early morning, when his nerves were worn thin by insomnia, Voldemort would admit to some of the mistakes he had made and wonder if it was a fitting punishment.

It was unfortunate indeed that Potter seemed to have picked up Dumbledore's infuriating attitude, Voldemort thought days after his latest visit to the dungeons. But I'll always have you, Tom. It beset him even now as he slowly sifted through a new legislation draft that aimed to mask some less savoury aspects of his rule from the outside world. Potter's words echoed through his mind taunting him from the shadows of his memory. Almost imperceptibly, Voldemort sighed.

"Yaxley," he called the Death Eater waiting by the entrance of the large study he currently occupied. "This one needs more work. Too many loopholes that can be used to protect muggle filth."

Yaxley gave the parchment scroll a curious look but nodded and accepted it without question. One look at the title, however, had his normally pale face turning ashen and his legs shaking visibly.

"M-my Lord?"

"What is it?" Voldemort asked with an air of mild annoyance, even as a sense of foreboding squeezed his insides. Yaxley stared at the ground.

"T-this one was signed into effect yesterday, My Lord. You ap-approved it last morning."

The room seemed to tilt sideways for a moment before abruptly righting itself. Voldemort's fingers curled around his wand under the table. Nobody can know. Yaxley looked as though he was trying to shrink, his neck lowering into his shoulders.

"P-perhaps there was some mistake, My Lord?"

He knows. He knows. Wide-eyed panic crashed over Voldemort like a mighty wave. He should Obliviate the man right now. Nobody could know of his weakness, nobody was allowed to see this lurking insanity that Voldemort hid even from himself.

Yet his hand, where it gripped the Elder Wand tightly, remained unmoving. There was a certain reluctance that settled into his limbs since Rabastan's unintended death. Voldemort stomped out another rising tide of panic.

"Yes, indeed," he replied with faux candidness, forcing himself to relax into Lucius' commodious armchair. "Work out the necessary amendments by tomorrow. We'll see how soon we can implement them."

Yaxley all but melted in relief. He bowed down low, whispering, "My Lord," and started walking backwards out of the room.

Voldemort rubbed his thumb over the smooth surface of the wand absently. When Yaxley finally reached the door and turned around, Voldemort let him go with a deep sense of dissatisfaction souring his mouth.

Perhaps it was time to visit Potter again.

Yes, ever since he was a child, Tom Riddle had found himself struggling for control. As the years went by, his plans grew and evolved, his methods became more brutal and efficient, his paths changed, taking him into deeper and darker recesses of magic. Yet it always came exactly to this – a struggle for control.

Which was why it was necessary that he finally broke Potter, moulded the boy to his will, Voldemort thought as he once again made a trek down to the dungeons, his uncomfortable interaction with Yaxley firmly locked away in his mind. He was certain that once he put Potter in his place, his wand would also stop rebelling against him.

Harry gave him a placid sort of smile when he entered the dungeon and Voldemort was struck again by his uncanny resemblance to Dumbledore. Then he noticed something else.

"Who gave you the blanket?"

Potter was sitting in a corner of his cell, a thick wool blanket wrapped around his shoulders. There seemed to be something like a pillow on the ground behind him.

The boy blinked, "Hello to you too."

"Who's helping you, Potter?" Voldemort pulled out his wand despite the fact that his fingers still felt stiff and uncooperative around it. "Is it Narcissa?"

Potter raised both eyebrows, "Oh, I thought it was your act of kindness. Honest mistake."

Voldemort's vision swam with black spots for a moment and then, suddenly, he was right in front of Potter, inside his cell. He pointed his wand between the boy's eyes.

"I am beginning to think you enjoy it, Potter. The knowledge that people are dying for you." Stubborn green eyes connected with his and for a second Voldemort felt breathless at the deep well of sadness he saw there. He drew himself up straight, "Legilimens."

Noise and agony. There was a reason he hadn't done this since their encounter at the Ministry. Voldemort felt himself stumble physically as he first entered Potter's mind. Then he couldn't feel even that as his own body was lost somewhere behind the sound barrier of a hundred voices screaming in the boy's head. Raw, uncontrollable grief, boiling anger that knew no outlet, twisted, sickening love – all of them crashed over him like storm waves, sending him in different directions across Potter's mind. He saw fragments of himself with madness stirring in his eyes, of Rabastan hurtling curses at the boy, an expression of pure joy on the Death Eater's face.

Just as Voldemort swatted away painful jagged memories of Potter's dying friends, he felt more than saw a shadow passing through the boy's mind. Somebody was there, standing in the corner of Potter's cell as some Weasley or another took his last breath. Except, when Voldemort stepped closer, the cell was empty, save for Potter himself reaching out somewhere through the bars.

Stay with me. Be with me.

It was whispered right into his ear and the Dark Lord flailed wildly, a flash of white stealing over his vision. Draco? Lucius? He turned, spying the same undefined shadow hovering over Potter in another memory. The boy was lying on the floor of his cell, shivering, covered in drying blood. As Voldemort approached, the heady, confusing fog of Potter's thoughts seemed to clear, the dark shape morphing and dissipating until it was an actual shadow cast over the boy's broken form. Was it even there? Did Potter imagine it?

I'm here, I'm here…

In the next instance the memory itself disappeared, taking with it the strange sense of clarity. Potter's mind was, once again, a tempest of love and grief that scalded Voldemort's skin and sent him reeling through the memories. Some strange, almost familiar presence was clinging to every one of them, crawling amongst the shadows everywhere he looked, but Voldemort's control was already slipping, pushing him to the surface like he had tried to stay underwater for too long. With a shuddering breath he found himself back in his own body.

Potter was blinking curiously at him from behind his spectacles. They were touching, Voldemort realised in alarm – one of his arms had snaked around the boy's waist, crushing their bodies against one another, while his other hand was gripping Potter's throat, not quite choking, but squeezing just enough to feel the pulse fluttering under his fingers. With a great effort Voldemort stepped back, forcing his sluggish limbs to push away from the boy.

Immediately the dungeon became darker and colder, and Voldemort realised belatedly that the flash of light he saw earlier must have been the moment he first touched the skin of his horcrux. Strange. He did not remember having such an intense reaction from touching his horcruxes before. But then again, he had never tried something quite like this – connecting with them both physically and mentally at the same time. He stared at the child in contemplation.

Even though Potter was still covered in sweat and shaking through the aftermath of Voldemort's assault on his mind, his lips quirked up in a wry smile. "Why Tom, I didn't know you felt that way about me." His voice echoed around the dungeon with more force than the place's acoustics usually warranted and the Dark Lord flinched. "Don't you want to touch me? Hold me? Have me?"

As Voldemort listened to the boy's taunting laughter on his way out, he was forced to conclude that Potter was nothing at all like Albus Dumbledore.

In the past two decades of his life Voldemort never spared much thought to what he used to be before. He did still remember his childhood sometimes – lonely nights at the orphanage, waiting with baited breath for the sirens to go off; long hours of study in Hogwarts, always industrious, always on the lookout – but he avoided thinking of what came after it. Young Dark Lord. Rise to power. Daring magical experiments, scores of devoted followers. So much potential, so much promise. All that was taken from him by a child with wide fearless eyes.

He remembered it now, haunted by insomnia and trying to hide away from other thoughts – the ones that whispered how nobody could ever know and that he was going mad, truly mad and nothing could ever help him. He was so strong back then – so arrogant – standing on his own, never knowing defeat. Daring to believe for the first time that he could hold on to his power, to his control. He had discovered secrets of immortality at sixteen, found a way stop ageing at thirty, invented a spell to tie his Death Eaters to him, mind, body and soul, at thirty-two. All vain, meaningless things that did not – could not – stop a flash of green, and the child's naked stare, and agony, and agony, and the control slipping through his fingers.

The boy didn't just took it all away from him metaphorically. He quite literally took a piece of Voldemort's soul that night. And the presence that he felt in Potter's mind suggested that somewhere in there he was still intact – that Dark Lord of old who knew no weakness and never feared madness.

In the darkness, plagued with thoughts of it won't be long now and mad, completely mad, Voldemort could admit to himself that he craved that piece of himself more than anything in the world.

It was early evening and Voldemort stood near the fireplace in the Manor's drawing room. After Potter and his friends have been through here last spring, most of the furniture had been cleared out, either scorched beyond repair by stray spells or with shards of enchanted chandelier sticking out of it. Now the already spacious room seemed positively gigantic with echoes of every sound in the Manor bounding off of polished marble surfaces. Voldemort closed his eyes, trying to block out the noise and fight off a heavy pounding headache. If he stood very still and cleared his mind completely, he could almost ignore the fireworks of searing white spots being set off behind his eyelids.

"My Lord!" Bellatrix' voice rang out across the room, loud and triumphant. Voldemort opened his eyes suppressing a wince. "We captured them!"

She entered the room followed by Greyback and Scabior who, in turn, were dragging two prisoners – a boy with matted ginger hair and a girl. Both of them looked unhealthily thin and were covered in dried dirt and blood. The snatchers pushed them to their knees before the Dark Lord and Voldemort smiled. Checkmate.

This was it. He had seen enough in Potter's mind to know that these were Granger and Weasley and he had known, long before he even discovered that Potter was a horcrux, that capturing two of the boy's closest friends would mean his complete victory. Caring for people had always been Harry's downfall and he would do absolutely anything for those two.

"Well if it isn't a happy surprise," Voldemort murmured softly, ignoring how his headache seemed to intensify tenfold with one look at Weasley's ginger bangs. "Ronald Weasley and Hermione Granger. We have been looking for you for a very long time now." He paused and contemplated the captives for another moment. They were mere children, just like Harry was. Tired and scared, yet still with enough Gryffindor defiance to glare daggers at the Dark Lord. These children helped Potter destroy the horcruxes. They would die for this tonight. "Ah, but this picture is incomplete. Bella, would you fetch Harry for us?" She headed for the dungeons and Voldemort added with some reluctance, "He is upstairs. In my quarters."

Bella left with a deep bow and Potter's friends exchanged astonished looks. With bright dots stealing over his vision like white noise Voldemort didn't have enough concentration to figure out whether they were shocked that Harry was held in the Dark Lord's private chambers or they didn't even expect the boy to be alive.

He didn't remember when exactly he had decided to relocate Potter. It made sense to keep a closer eye on the boy, since somebody in the Manor was helping him, and it certainly gave Voldemort ample opportunities to study his own horcrux, but the fact remained that the Dark Lord simply didn't remember. He supposed it didn't really matter. Not when he was so close to finally, finally having complete control over Potter.

With the prisoners heavy breathing echoing along the tall ceiling and final rays of dying autumn sun painting the marble in bright reds and oranges, Voldemort's migraine was growing steadily worse. Heavy tendrils of some dark parasite were creeping over his brain, squeezing his head from the inside. It won't be long now, he reminded himself, running his fingers along the length of his wand and trying to distract himself from the headache. He heard the mudblood whisper a soft 'I love you' to the Weasley boy and sneered down at them both.

When Harry finally arrived, Voldemort thought that there was something rather fetching with golden light illuminating raw desperation on his face. For a moment their eyes met across the room and the walls seemed to shake. Then the boy turned to look at his friends and Voldemort refused to feel disappointed.

"Harry!" two children on the floor cried, voices charged with some welled-up emotion between sorrow and relief. Potter looked about as conflicted as they sounded, almost smiling before remembering their surroundings and shaking his head.

"God, guys. How-? I mean..." He looked down at his feet, before whispering, "I am so, so sorry."

Idly Voldemort wondered what it was like inside Potter's mind at that moment. Then he smiled widely, ignoring another rush of flickering darkness blooming at the edge of his vision.

"How touching. The famous Gryffindor trio, together at last."

Bella and the snatchers laughed – too loud – and Voldemort took the time to cross the room and pull Potter out of Bellatrix' greedy clutches. Possessive tendrils creeping through his mind seemed to flail for a moment before settling down at their touch. It was such an unexpected relief that Voldemort was overcome with something akin to gratitude.

"~Say it, Harry. Admit your defeat. You know what's coming next, do you not? So plead for my mercy – then, perhaps, I shall not make you watch.~"

It was the only kindness he could offer to his horcrux. He knew, of course, that Potter would never accept it. Still, it was strange when the boy hissed, "~Just hurry up and get this over with.~" Potter's eyes were dull and hard, with a grim sort of intent behind them.

It's just as well, really.

"Bella, why don't you remind Harry here about your favourite spell?"

"Yes, My Lord!" The witch cackled madly, twirling her wand, "Crucio!"

Predictably, she started with the mudblood, though Weasley started yelling almost at the same moment as the girl. Voldemort masked his wince with a gleeful smile as the sounds pierced his eardrums and set off a new wave of flickering darkness in his mind. Potter tensed but remained silent.

The Dark Lord let Bellatrix have her fun for a few seconds before interrupting, "Enough for now." The mudblood curled on the floor panting heavily and Voldemort let out a long exhale when the screaming stopped. "You see, Harry, Bella here has determined that there is a finite amount of pain that wizard's mind can endure before it breaks." Potter sent Bellatrix a look of pure hatred and the witch laughed again. "Now, I want to... further her research, if you will, and see how much pain it takes for human body to collapse completely. Plus, we both are curious to see if mudbloods have the same stamina as the wizards." Voldemort turned to look Potter in the eye. Potter was staring at his friends, so he grabbed the boy's chin and forced his head to the side. The room swam with black spots momentarily. "But here is your role, Harry: you will get to choose which one of your friends will be given a quick and painless death and which one will stay to see the end of our experiment."

Potter's eyes widened. He shook his head in denial and Voldemort would have laughed if it wasn't for sudden vertigo adding to the gnawing pain in his head.

Something was very, very wrong. The thought rolled through Voldemort's mind before he had a chance to grasp it. He pushed on, ignoring it.

"Bella, let's give Harry a little incentive to make his choice, shall we?"

This time the witch picked Weasley and Voldemort ground his teeth. At least the mudblood didn't join in on the screams. She was staring at Potter, seemingly attempting some form of non-verbal communication. Harry kept shaking his his head weakly. His lips were moving, muttering something, but it was impossible to hear over Weasley's wailing. Finally, Bella cut the curse off.

"…-ry up. Please," Potter whispered before catching himself.

The sun finally sank under the horizon and dark shadows were spreading through the room, supplanting the streaks of golden light. One particularly black one was forming to the right of Potter and the Dark Lord, away from the window. Perhaps it was merely Voldemort's addled vision but long shadowy fingers were caressing the too-sharp edges of the boy's face, the darkness licking his cheekbones and jaw.

"Harry... Harry, I'm so sorry," Weasley panted out when Bella let up on the curse. She immediately started on the mudblood again, so the ginger cried out, "Stop it! Please!" And then, louder and with more desperation, "Harry!"

Potter was shaking, Voldemort realised. Distantly he thought that the boy's shivers were masking his own.

"Please," Harry called but he was still addressing his friends. "Just hold on. Hold on for me, please."

Weasley looked more focused and also more desperate, "You know we would. For as long as you need. But this is..–" Bella chose that moment to Crucio him again, so his words dissolved into loud keening and the mudblood's dry sobs.

"Harry," the girl called, trying to control her breathing. She didn't seem to be able to say anything else and Voldemort hissed impatiently.

Potter's friends tearful goodbyes were taking too long and Voldemort's head was hurting, splitting in half with every prolonged minute of screaming.

"Make a choice, Harry." He lifted his wand and pointed it at the mudblood. "Time is up."

The rest happened too quickly. Potter's hand shot up to grab his wand arm and it was steady. No trace of the shuddering mess the boy was a mere moment ago. There were several surprised gasps, amplified by the room's acoustics, but before anyone could react, Potter twisted in Voldemort's hold, grabbed a side of his face to bring them closer and, with fury flashing in his eyes, crushed their mouths together. Bella's outraged cry skittered through the Dark Lord's mind before everything went quiet.

Potter's lips were angry and hungry, meshing against Voldemort with disarming passion. The boy's tongue swept along the seam of Voldemort's mouth, leaving the skin there hot and cold at once and the Dark Lord gasped. Same hot and wet tongue pressed Potter's advantage, pushing inside, before Voldemort's head finally cleared and he grabbed Potter by the hair, wrenching his head away.

"My Lord?" Bella cried, flabbergasted but Voldemort ignored her.

There was no pain. That was the first thought that surfaced after he pushed Potter away. For the first time in what seemed like months now, Voldemort's head was cool and clear, no dark tendrils or bright flashes stewing behind his eyelids. There was a sense of something missing, an acute not-quite ache, not-quite grief making him tighten his grip on Potter. There was also an unexpected weakness to his limbs, so it wasn't hard for the boy to pry his fingers away.

"Seventeen years. Seventeen years left behind, discarded and hunted by you," Potter's lips were moving but his voice came out all wrong. It was echoing too loudly, almost as if two voices were coming out of the boy's mouth at once. "Never healing, never able to properly connect. Never a chance to return. Always in agony, so much agony."

Is it possible? Something seemed to click together in Voldemort's head, even as he recoiled from Potter. He had seen Potter's memories of his own diary and knew that horcruxes could and would possess others. All it took was an unsuspecting victim developing an emotional attachment to the horcrux' host. But could a horcrux try to possess him?

I thought it was your act of kindness.

And suddenly Voldemort saw it – himself with a tattered blanket in his hands, covering Potter's shivering form. Descending into the dungeons in the early mornings to heal the wounds he inflicted on the boy the night before.

Stay with me. Be with me.

"I think he's finally getting it, Harry." The shadow growing out of Potter's back didn't look like a shadow anymore. Tall, all-too-familiar figure seemed to condense out of the darkness behind the boy, one arm sneaking around Potter's waist, the other buried in his hair. The shades were clearing by the moment, revealing sharp cheekbones, immaculate dark hair and a pair of eyes – neither grey, nor yet scarlet at that age, but bloodshot and menacing. "I told you that physical contact would do wonders, didn't I?"

Colour was bleeding out from Voldemort's vision. All the faces were turning bleaker by the second – Bella and Greyback who were staring aghast at the two versions of their Master, clearly too confused to act, the children on the floor who looked at Potter. Potter himself became almost grey except for his eyes that shone a bright poisonous green.

"Close the doors," Potter commanded, relaxing into the horcrux' possessive embrace and tilting his head back.

Voldemort's hand moved without his control, sealing all the entrances to the room. No. Concentrating through his draining vision, he pointed his wand at Potter. The horcrux wasn't fully materialised yet, he was still tied to its vessel. If he could just...

Before he could say the incantation, Potter snapped his fingers and the Deathstick flew into his hands.

"You see," the boy said and his voice was strangely kind, "you got it all wrong with the ownership of the Elder Wand. It's not enough to simply kill the last person who held it, you need to win it from its previous owner."

"And you were so gracious as to give Harry an option to admit defeat," the horcrux chimed snidely, one of its hands combing through Potter's locks. He, too, was draining of colour; even the bloody eyes looked grey now. "As for me, well, – Harry and I have come to an understanding."

I'll never settle for something that mediocre again. Potter said that day. Who said I'm waiting for the Order of Phoenix? Their fight was lost the moment you took over the Ministry. Perhaps even before that.

"Tom," Harry spoke softly, his eyes trained on Voldemort, "let's just end this."

"As you wish," the horcrux replied, disentangling from Potter.

No. Voldemort reeled away from them and stumbled, falling in a heap. Control… It was slipping away from him and the room was spinning, just seconds away from the fall. There had to be something, anything..–

Tom Riddle appeared in his ever-narrowing line of vision, kneeling at his side. Somewhere in the lost space behind him Harry's eyes still shone Killing Curse green.

"Just let go," one of them said.

A cold, not-yet-corporeal hand touched his chest. The world turned still, and dark, and silent.

The End

Author's note: Oh dear. As is typical, I've completely lost all inspiration by the time I've reached the end and I don't even know anymore. Please, let me know what you think!