Hello everyone! Wow, it's been so long since I posted on this account. Strange to be back. I debated whether or not I should post it as GeMerope where I am writing another HPLV story currently (If you're interested, it's called In Willing Sacrifice), but in the end decided that I'd like to keep up the separation of accounts for non-adult, and adult content. So, here the first T rated fic in... a very long time.

Enjoy!

Death descended upon Lord Voldemort, who cried out at all the chances missed, all the magic that would be lost with his demise. The slivers of soul he'd so carefully plucked from his own were all gone now, dissipated into nothingness. How had this possibly happened? He was supposed to have been the most powerful being alive, untouchable, unreachable by the cold hands of nothingness. After going to such lengths to ensure his own endlessness, after rising above the common filth to become closer to deity than man, now he would perish before even the lifespan of a Muggle would commonly end? At merely half of the life his own kind was usually privileged to have? No... no, he refused. Even if he'd have to pry open the gates of the hell he'd been threatened so often with in his youth, he'd walk this earth once more. Before the tunnel of light could close on him completely, Voldemort besmirched his own tongue with the language of that which he feared most: the only spell he'd ever been able to learn of death magic. A few days it would grant him... a few days to tether his mangled soul to this earth once more.

His body dropped.

I need to live.
Through another soul if I have to.
Another heart,
I can claim as mine.

Two days after the final battle, Harry still could not find himself to feel the same excitement and enjoyment that the world around him appeared to have. Burying his hands in the tangled black mess that was his hair, the teen once more saw the faces of all those who had had to give up their lives because of him. Because he'd been too late destroying all the Horcruxes and led Voldemort straight to Hogwarts. Had Dumbledore been there, surely the headmaster would be as disappointed in Harry as he was himself. The blood of dozens of people clung to his hands, hunted the dreams that plagued his mind even by daylight. It was incomprehensible how Ron and Hermione could join the celebrations that took place all over the country still. One of Ron's own brothers had died and yet...

Harry shook his head. He couldn't blame his friends for being less miserable humans than he was. Finally defeating his arch-enemy should have made him feel invincible, elated. There was nothing but a pit of guilt and uncertainty instead. In every corner he imagined Voldemort lurking, waiting to strike again. Why? Was he that desperate to find a meaning in his own existence that he wished that that monster wasn't dead? How fucked up was that? Then again, what was he to do with his life now?

Harry staggered back to bed, not feeling like eating anything. At one point, others would surely come for him and try to drag him out of Grimmauld place. Today was not that day, everyone too busy to remember the one who'd made it happen. He smirked grimly at the thought. Maybe Snape had been right in that he'd inherited some of his father's arrogance. Harry would never have thought that after it was all over, he'd expect gratitude of all things. Now here he was, wishing for some hint of recognition. He'd been willing to give his life to defeat the Dark Lord. In return he'd gotten only wary looks from Aurors and medics before they'd left him on his own.

In the corner of the dingy room, a shadow swirled again and Harry closed his eyes, focusing on breathing. It was only his own selfish wish: for the reason of all his struggles and the justification of his actions to be back. He'd seen the dead body of the Dark Lord himself, knew that all Horcruxes had been destroyed. Voldemort was dead for good. The little voice that had nagged the back of his mind for the past two days should be ignored again. Getting fed up with his own mind, he grabbed the half-empty bottle of elf-wine Winky had gifted him -how ridiculous that the only one who'd shown him real thanks had been a house-elf- and took another swig. He didn't really care if anyone thought that seventeen was too young to become an alcoholic, as long as it filled the emptiness in his chest.

Give me a voice,
with which to rule.
The armies need to get back in line,
get back to how they used to stand.

Pathetic and drunk... how had the boy fallen so deeply after achieving victory? For over a decade, Harry Potter had been a thorn in his side, refused to give up, refused to back down. This creature had ruined all of his chances, taken his life twice and now he as wallowing in self-pity? Infuriated, Voldemort channelled all of his rage at the sleeping child, feeling his own form thickening, the pure wrath giving him will to live again. For a while now, he'd observed how Potter had rummaged about in the burrow he'd made for himself, cut off from the outside world. How dare he act as if even Lord Voldemort's death had been in vain? His death... smoke formed hands that clawed at Potter's face, a shriek of fury left unheard by anyone piercing the room. The only one who could have heard was too far gone.

Glowing, sanguine eyes took in the form sprawled out before him, a hatred so intense that it enabled him to chill the room, magic forcing its way out of wispy remains. Harry Potter... the scar was still there, now faded and old. Had the bond broken with his death? Voldemort studied the sleeping face, trying to comprehend.

Try for some remorse

He gasped as he finally realised why those words had been uttered. Remorse, the only 'cure' for a torn soul, a cure he'd laughed at, for who would ever want to undo their Horcruxes? Now, it all fell in place. Potter had destroyed his Horcruxes, the brat had gloated about it when duelling. And Potter had, once more, survived his Killing curse right before that...

Horcrux. Harry Potter had been his Horcrux, one he'd destroyed with his own hands.

If he'd been anyone else, this thought would have made him fall to his knees and sob. Voldemort merely forced that insight to turn his mind into a more calculating direction. He hadn't much time left anymore: the pulling had started from beyond the Veil, tugging at whatever sanity was left. For any ordinary man this surely would have meant the end, but the Dark Lord was anything but that. As a plan formed in his mind, the once-powerful wizard grasped at any strings of life it could find. The world wasn't right yet. Muggles still overran them, would find them, destroy them like they had destroyed who Tom Riddle once could have become if only he'd found acceptance instead of hatred.

I will rise from the grave,
with another body if I have to,
another heart,
through which to feel.

Huddled in a corner of his room, Harry once more gave into the fears that swirled in his mind. Smoky tendrils stretched out to him and he screamed to try and scare them off. His friends, who had visited yesterday, had fled soon after they'd figured out the state he was in. As if he could have expected differently, Harry bitterly thought. He felt crazier than Luna at the moment. Everywhere he looked, he saw the remnants of his past. Visions of the world he'd destroyed with one rebounded Killing curse entered his life again. He could not decide if he wanted to forget about it or wanted everything to go back to how it used to be. An insane notion, after all the sacrifices that had been made.

Bile rose in his throat as another hallucination of a ghostly Lord Voldemort settled at his side, pale digits touching his face, glee almost exuding from him.. it.. whatever. A piercing look captivated Harry, red eyes so close to his own that the belief of it being a mere image of his mind wavered.

''Harry Potter,''

Fearfully, Harry looked at the ravaged remains of a spirit that clung to life by will alone. Slivers of ghostly echoes touched the one who'd been a host for that very soul before. Too late, Harry's mind woke from its stupor, reality crashing down on him. The mind of Harry Potter, which had been battered down over the past days by the presence of the Dark Lord, who even in this form was still an excellent Legilimens, caved. Potter's will had been easy to suppress, with the scars of war fresh and the phase of mourning not yet over. It had been effortless to make the boy doubt the world around him and even second-guess his closest friends.

Any resistance was futile as Lord Voldemort slipped into new skin.

You, my chosen nemesis,
your soul, heart and voice,
I shall take as mine to live.
I shall arise to take my rightful place.

Other people left them mostly alone, which Voldemort found perfect. The screams that occasionally sounded from within the mind he now resided in were shushed with a wave of mind-magic. Day by day, he made Harry Potter drift further away from the Mudbloods and blood-traitors he'd kept so close before. After a year had passed and he'd refused all civil contact in Potter's name, only the youngest Weasley was persistent enough to keep trying. That is, until she finally found out what was so familiar about Harry, with his memory-gaps and constantly confused state on the rare occasion that Voldemort allowed him some time. Then she too, fell like the rest of the common folk, crumbling under the wand of Lord Voldemort, who'd smiled down on the corpse with Potter's face, a twinge of strange pity entering his mind as the boy raged and thrashed around in their head until exhaustion set in.

His change served him well soon. Having kept Potter out of the light of day for so long had faded those annoying bonds of friendship, and made way for new people who were drawn to the mystery surrounding their young hero. If Potter had only known in those first days after the battle how many admirers he had: the Ministry was pliant in their hands with people flocking to him for words of strength and advise. And so, the policies that had caused such resistance before, went through with ease when suggested by the Golden Boy, his own charisma a perfect combination with Potter's fame. A few of those around the boy had disappeared over the years, naturally, as well as others who even breathed speculations that grasped at the truth. Lives that hardly mattered compared to his own.

Not that living as Potter was always easy. No matter the body, he was constantly reminded of his own mortality, and without his precious Horcruxes, he once again had to face fear, guilt, and other stenches of emotions. All the while, Voldemort made himself feel better by controlling the only aspect of life that he fully could: isolating Harry further, making old friends disappear one by one , until the brat didn't even want to take over control anymore. Instead, those days that Voldemort left Harry in his own body were becoming more and more a punishment for when Harry didn't behave how Voldemort liked, leaving him stranded in a world estranged to the boy now.

Give me another chance,
to see my visions come true.
My enemy,
Your life is my salvation.

''Tom.''

Voldemort snarled, shocking those around him. Not that it mattered. So many years had passed now that he'd been able to build up their new persona enough that none were too surprised about Potter's sudden outburst of anger. He'd played it off as trauma from the war, which Harry definitely did suffer from even now. Or especially now. Thirteen years... as long as the Dark Lord had been dead last time around, when he'd been so overwhelmed by his own demise that he'd fled and lived in animals instead.

''What!'' he thought back, trying to shut the boy up -or man now, he supposed. Having aged together, Potter was nearing the end of his twenties.- No answer came, a wave of fatigue causing him to tremble all of a sudden. He dismissed the meeting, people packing up with haste before they got cursed -something he'd been quick to introduce when finally the reigns of the Ministry were handed over to him.- No longer possessing an intimidating form, he had to use other means of instilling fear into his minions. He growled again, now at an empty room, trying to get Harry to answer him. If the fool had interrupted him needlessly, Harry would feel his wrath, that was for certain.

''You've won. Let me go.''

What was this? Voldemort blinked. Harry was rarely so talkative, usually conveying thoughts only through Harry's favourite tool: feelings. It clearly took every bit of energy that the other had saved up in the past weeks to get coherent words out. ''No,'' he spoke aloud, smiling cruelly. ''Why would I?''

''You hate me. Now kill me for good. Please. I cannot bear this anymore.''

''Harry Potter,'' he whispered, savouring the dread he felt. ''Begging for Lord Voldemort to end his life once more? How remarkable. Where are your poorly-chosen words of pity for me now?''

With astonishment, Voldemort watched as something bled out of him, strands of coloured mist forming a flickering image of a worn-down Harry Potter ''I'm tired Tom. You've won, okay? You've taken everything from me that you could. My parents, my childhood, now my friends. You've made a mockery of the hardships I went through to defeat you, made the deaths of those I loved meaningless. You have what you want now, so let me go.''

As in a trance, Voldemort reached out, his fingers ghosting over Harry's silvery tears that slipped from behind those ugly glasses that were even in this form still present. A world without the nagging of Potter in his head should have sounded amazing. It wasn't, only the mere thought making him feel as if his soul was being ripped apart once more. Slowly, he shook his head. ''You are the only person who knows me for who I truly am. Letting you go would mean killing the last piece of me that you hold: the memory of that all my deeds are mine. I will find another way of immortality, and I'll let you live to the end of eternity with me, forever a spectator in a world where Lord Voldemort died in the eyes of everyone else. With this body, I created the world I wished to live in. And with you, Harry Potter, I will keep my own sanity. If that is at the expense of yours, so be it.''

''You cannot live without me anymore then, can you?'' Potter sighed, his face a blank mask now. ''How I wished that Dumbledore would have been wrong about my powers.''

Voldemort did not reply to that, didn't need to, traitorous emotions left unspoken laid bare between them. If there was one thing the Dark Lord had ever loved, it was himself. Now, he embraced the person who had become a part of him.

''You'll always be mine,'' he breathed against ghostly cheeks as he kissed the tears away. ''A witness of my victory.''

As Lord Voldemort walked out of the room, a new feeling bloomed in his chest, one that he couldn't quite place until Harry told him what it was with a tired, defeated voice. If Voldemort had known that this twisted version of love existed, he'd have accepted it ages ago.

This story started as a poem which I first wantd to upload on its own, but then I gradually got the idea of building a one-shot around it. I hope you liked it.

Please Read and Review!