The rain pelted against his body as he strode down the cold London street and dripped from the cowl of his cloak. Once, such torrents of water would have bothered him as the speeding droplets beat against him, but that was when he was young and foolish and weak.

Now, the puddles on the ground parted beneath him, not daring to splash his cloak with their muddy water.

He turned left sharply onto a winding path that led to a grand-looking house. It was Victorian in style, but lacked the magnificence of its architectural era, although it was visually undiminished by age. Passers-by might assume it was the faintly creepy aura the mansion gave of that stole from its beauty.

If it was the dark feeling that the house gave off that made it seem so hideous, the cloaked man didn't notice.

He reached the large front door, which opened before he even touched it although he hadn't needed to reach for the bone-white wand resting in his robes. He showed no sign of this being an unusual occurrence; instead he simply strode into the house. Behind him, the door closed by itself.

Harry pulled the hood from his face and ran his hand through his drenched hair. He waved an open hand across his body and his dripping cloak disappeared. He touched the drop of water forming on the end of his fringe; magically, his hair became dry.

Harry smiled as the waves of power that came with doing wandless magic crashed through him. If Ron or Hermione could see that smile, they'd be appalled by how unlike himself he looked. By how evil it looked.

But that was because he wasn't himself any more. Harry hadn't been himself since the battle of Hogwarts, when Tom Riddle killed the part of his soul that Harry had thought was clinging to his.

When he'd met Dumbledore in Kings Cross, the elderly man had thought that Harry could go back and live his life. He'd thought everything would become how it should be, with only the lack of connection to Voldemort and his unresponsive scar to serve as a lasting reminder of what had happened.

Dumbledore had been wrong.

Because Voldemort's soul hadn't been clinging to Harry. Yes, it had latched on to Harry seventeen years before and hadn't let go. But what Dumbledore had neglected to take into account was that souls were not just impartial objects. They were conscious.

And the fragment of soul had played its part well. It had spent the seventeen years it was with Harry forming and changing and adapting. It had merged with the other soul contained within Harry's body.

It had become a part of him.

A black, evil, separate part, but a part nonetheless. And when Voldemort had cast the killing curse and that part was gone, it had left a hole, a void, that had to be filled.

Harry had felt it happen. It had taken weeks and months, but he'd felt it every step of the way as his soul had seeped into that gap. That darkened, poisonous gap that corrupted all which touched it. He'd fought the change at first, rebelling as his soul turned black and evil. But then he' realised how good it had felt.

His soul was almost as corrupted as the fragment it'd stored for so long, and he was even more powerful a wizard because of it.

The knowledge empowered him, and showed in his every action, from his smirk to his stance to his stride as he walked confidently through his house.

He reached a door that stood ajar. Beyond it was a set of uneven stone steps. Noiselessly, Harry walked down them.

They curved around a pillar twice until they levelled off into a darkened basement. Harry frowned, although it wasn't visible in the dim lighting, and clicked his fingers. A soft yellow glow illuminated the room. Immediately visible was a figure in the middle of the room, with chains stretching from his arms to the ceiling.

His blonde hair – once so short, now grown long in the time he'd been confined to the mansion - fell over his face, but he defiantly shook it away from his red rimmed eyes as he raised her head to glare at his husband. He fought not to squint, though the sudden brightness hurt his eyes.

"Harry," he croaked. His mouth was dry; he had refused the water Harry had brought him that morning, and he hadn't drunken since the day before.

"Draco, love," Harry's voice was uncharacteristically tender. His love for the blond before him was all he had left of his former self. "How are you?"

"How do you think?" he shot at him angrily. Shaking his wrists, Draco rattled the chains that kept him stuck in the room. Harry could see the congealed blood on the metal from where he'd tried to free himself during the long hours of the day. "Unchain me at once!"

"You know I can't do that, my sweet," Harry crooned. "You tried to leave here yesterday."

"I went to see my mother! You can't keep me from the world! You can't keep me here!"

"But I can," Harry said gently, ignoring Draco's rage. "I have to. Home is where the heart is, my love. And you are my heart, so you must remain at home. I can't let you leave; you're all I have left. I can only free you if you'll swear an unbreakable vow to never leave this house."

"Never," Draco hissed. "Someone'll come for me eventually."

Harry looked at him sadly. "You'd think, wouldn't you? If they do come, I will defend you. Until my last breath. Now, Would you like to reconsider your answer?"

"Never."

"Then I'll come back when you're more agreeable." Without another word, he turned and left the room.

Draco fought the tears that threatened to spill over. What had happened to the man he'd once loved?