A/N: Revised on December 6th

Disclaimer: Do not own Harry Potter. Just play with the idea of Harry/Voldemort slash! ;)

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Breathe Into Me

"Breathe your life into me, I can't feel you. I'm falling, falling faster. Breathe your life into me. I still need you. I'm falling. Breathe into me.." - Breathe Into Me, Red

He had made sure that they had suffered. He always had. He would not settle for their insolence, and as they had laid at his feet, begging, pleading for mercy, he did not succumb to their wishes; No, they would suffer. They would pay for not obeying a direct order, for failing on a mission he had stressed over and over and over again would not be tolerated to fail. They had not been reprieved. The would get only punishment, only suffering, and he hadn't given them anything less. He wouldn't – couldn't – because he did not do it. It was not his nature. He had vowed to himself that he would always get what he wanted. And he always did, because he willed it.

What he wanted now was Harry Potter.

Sitting alone in a dark room, his chambers, upon his throne, his wand held loosely in his right hand, his mind was set upon that one thing: Harry Potter. The boy.

He lifted his head, staring avidly at a random part of the stone wall. The boy, who had messed up his entire life, was all he wanted tonight. And he always got what he wanted. He raised a skeletal hand, his gaze moving to his thin finger nails. They were unblemished, clean; He wondered if any dirt could squeeze between his nails as they were so thick and clamped upon his skin. It's like they were woven there, woven like Harry Potter was in his life, his fate, his destiny; Hissing, he raised his head again, agitated at why he kept thinking about the boy. What agitated him even more was why he was thinking about the boy with no desire to kill him, a desire that usually accompanied his darkest dreams, his deepest desires, his sleep like a song; The boy was like a sound, a whisper, a low, subtle lament, a nocturne.

But Harry was more than a song — he was a thorn in his side, like salt in an open wound; A wound that never healed, nor closed, a hole he could not fill, could not deplete, get rid of; Because Harry Potter kept living. Over and over again, with remarkable luck, the boy escaped him. But that's just what it was - luck. And luck did not last forever; It eventually ran out. And it would for Harry Potter. But not tonight. He had no desire to kill the boy tonight. What was more, what was agitating him so, was that he didn't know why.

He tore his gaze away from the wall to stare at the torch of flame on the opposite side of the room, just leveled with his chair. The fire flickered, crackling against the silence, and the silhouette created against the wall was an exact shadow of the hot flames. Torrents of it shot up, then down again, keeping a steady flow at a consistent rate, never rising, never falling. Consistent. That was another word that could describe his obsession, for a better word, with Harry Potter. It never died, or was put off, even for a fleeting moment. Never. It was eternal. For all eternity would Harry be his obsession, his reason, his obligation, his will, his life; Fate had ensured it, entwined their destinies, a constant waver, never breaking, never separating; Never ending.

No, forever would they be bound to one another. Forever would they ever be the reason the other lived, the reason they existed. They belonged to each other. Harry was his, and he was Harry's. They were a pair, a pair bound by hate, pain, suffering, bondage, a connection; The scar was the mark of their vendetta, their hatred, their magnitude of venom; Venomous hatred slithered through the other's veins, like a serpent, a posion only caused by the deepest, meanest, strongest of fangs; Those fangs had pierced both of their sides for years – many years – now. And they would forever, because fate had ensured it.

There wasn't any other choice, for either of them.

Voldemort looked away, the brightness of the flames bothering his eyes somewhat. Staring instead at the dark red carpet of the floor, he smirked; Fate may have bound them together, but only one would die - and he would make sure it was Harry who did. Because he willed it, and Lord Voldemort always got what he wanted, even if it was Harry Potter.

–———

"Harry, what's this..?"

Harry Potter, staring at his homework paper with tired eyes, looked up. His eyes widened instantly. "Where did you get that?"

Hermione Granger crossed her arms and eyed him with suspicion. "Cut the theatrics, Harry. What in Merlin's name are you doing with You-Know-Who's old diary?"

"Nothing," said Harry flatly, the tiredness of the day finally catching up with him. "I'm just keeping it as a souvinere, that's all."

"Then why have you written in it?"

"Because the assesments of fifth year has a lot of stress associated with it, and it's nice to let some feelings out, if that's suddenly a crime," Harry spat angrily, "It isn't like Voldemort is using it; the Chamber of Secrets can't open again, the curse was broken, the diary's destroyed, so what harm can writing in the book do?"

"Don't tempt fate, Harry, you saw what happened with Ginny."

"Yeah, well, fate usually tempts me, if you remember." said Harry shortly. "I'll have my book back now, thanks."

He reached forward to grab it, but Hermione pulled it away, eyeing him warily.

"Your book? Last time I checked, this book was Tom Riddle's!"

"It is mine. Er, his." Harry corrected himself, "But I just like to write in it. He can't just get it back, and besides, it's completely harmless now. Dumbledore said so."

But apparently the topic of Dumbledore and his veiws did nothing to raise Hermione's morale.

"How can you trust Dumbledore's judgement when he's not even looking at you, Harry? He's ignoring you like the plauge - I think he thinks there's something wrong with you, and quite frankly so do I!"

"There's nothing wrong with me!" Harry hissed. "It's that damned toad-face! No one's stopping Umbridge!"

"Mate."

Harry looked over at his friend Ron, who was lying on the Gryffindor Common Room floor, reading his Transfiguration book.

"No one can do anything about Umbridge until you do. You just have to report what she's doing to you. Go to Dum -"

"No, I don't think I'll bother him with my problems, thanks, Ron." Harry snapped, and without waiting for a reply, he stood, yanking the book out of Hermione's grip as he ascended the stairs to the boys dormitories. As soon as he reached the landing, he felt a twinge of regret. He knew he shouldn't have snapped at them; They continued to stick by him, through all of his problems, even when he snapped at them, something Dumbledore never did. His heart swelled with guilt.

He'd apologize to Ron when he came up, though; He'd apologize to Hermione, too, in the morning. He was much too tired now. Taking a seat on his bed, he flipped the book over in his hands. He knew Hermione meant well, but sometimes she was too meddlesome for her own good. The bruise of guilt swelled upon thinking this thought. Sighing, he pulled out his quill from his bag and flipped the diary to the neatest, cleanest page. Pressing his quill to the page, he began to write.

I'm so confused. I don't know what to do. I don't know what's wrong with me. Maybe it's Umbridge. Mostly, I think it is. But my scar's always hurting now, and with it, I feel anger that I can't control. I don't know why I'm so angry all the time. I feel like someone's inside of me making me feel this way. It's like there's whispers in the dark, but I can't see the origin or the source; I can't figure out who's whispering them.

I just don't know what to do anymore.

Ron and Hermione think something's wrong, and the truth is, I think so, too. I'm just not myself, and I don't know why. I wish you were here with me, mum, dad; You could help me. But you're not. Dumbledore won't look at me or talk to me, and Sirius is too busy with the Order to be bothered with my petty problems. Luna probably wouldn't understand half the things I say, and I can't really go up to Snape for advice, can I? Yeah, that would be a clever thing to do. Earn myself more detentions. I still don't know why my scar burned when Umbridge touched me. I don't know why Dumbledore's treating me like this. I don't know why I'm not dead yet.

And he closed the book with a loud thud, and fell back onto his bed, still fully clothed, staring up at the canopy. He heard footsteps, and knew by the sound the feet made that Ron had come up for bed. Without looking, Harry cleared his throat, unable to meet his friend's eyes as he heard him scurry onto his own bed beside his, and whispered, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I treated you like that. You were only trying to help."

"It's fine, mate. I know you're just frustrated. But you upset Hermione pretty bad. She was only trying to help, you know. She thinks that book's evil."

"Yeah, I know she wants to help. I just.. I like to write what I'm feeling. It really helps. You don't think the diary's evil, do you?" Harry asked, now looking up to meet his friends eyes, who immediately shook his head.

"No, I don't think it's evil or corrupted. I don't even think it works anymore besides as a regular diary. If Dumbledore said the Riddle inside the diary was gone, then the memory – and the evil inside it – is gone, too." Ron answered.

Harry nodded. "Thanks."

Ron shrugged, "No problem, mate."

They went silent for a moment. It took Harry a moment to realize Ron was now completely changed and lying in bed. He turned over on his side to face him. He had made his decision.

"Look, Ron, can I talk to you about something..?"

Ron looked confused. "Sure. We're best mates, of course you can talk to me.."

Harry felt that twinge of guilt again. "Well.. it's about Voldemort.."

Ron's eyes widened. "You didn't have another vision?"

"No, no, nothing like that," Harry shook his head. "Ron - I feel like he's inside me. I think he's the voice I've been hearing in my nightmares. I think -" He stopped himself, carefully choosing the words. "I think he's possessing me."

But Ron seemed not to have heard; he was staring straight ahead of him, above Harry's head, face white and appalled. Harry's eyes creased. "Ron, did you hear me? What's wrong?"

Ron didn't reply. He only choked a strangle of fear, face paling rapidly.

"What?" Harry asked, this time more urgently.

"Behind.. behind you, Harry.." Ron whispered, almost inaudibly, his face growing whiter, still, sitting up in his bed.

Harry rolled over. He wasn't even completely on his side, when a hand clamped over his mouth. Voldemort's.

"Yes, Harry, I am inside you." He said sadistically. "I am your soul, your demon, your darkness; And you will be mine. Because I always get what I want."

Harry struggled underneath the skeletal hand possessing his mouth, and in an effort to break out, he raised his fist and socked the Dark Lord right on the side of the head. Voldemort's hand relinquished.

He sneered, and gave a low hiss. "That was very rude, you little brat."

He reached down and wrapped the skeletal, white hand around Harry's throat, and Harry felt his windpipe begin to suffocate under the coldness of the hand, and the air that was being deprived from his lungs. Harry attempted to scream, but all he managed was a strangled groan, as he was lifted out of his bed one-handedly by his nemesis, his enemy. Voldemort brought the boy into the air with almost no effort at all, and threw him forcefully down onto the floor, Harry's head colliding against the bedside table. His glasses fell, and broke against the collision. Feeling penetrably vulnerable, Harry crab-walked on the floor until he reached the four-poster opposite his. He heard footsteps, and knew Ron had run out for help, and the only thing left was Voldemort advancing slowly on him, his wand nowhere to be seen, a smile on his lips that looked like seductive venom and the diary lying beside his right leg. The diary! Harry lunged forward and seized it, grasping the pen with it. Raising it above his head, he began to bring it down onto the book. But it never got there. Instead, he felt cold around his throat again and gasped, straining to breathe, little dots in front of his eyes as he felt the air escape his lungs.

"Not today, little boy," Voldemort hissed, "Not ever. You are mine. Now and forever."

And Voldemort's cold, high laugh was drowned by a sea of darkness, and the smallest bright light on the edge of Harry's vision he knew to be the green light from the killing curse. He let himself fall, lifeless, as the darkness consumed him. It was over. He was Voldemort's now and forever. Even in death. His death.

It had ended at last.

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Nope, Harry's not dead. If he was, the story would have no point, plot or reason to be written. So, no, our hero hasn't died. But will he now that he's in Voldemort's clutches? We'll just have to wait and see.

Please read and review! Thanks:)

- Tainted Visions