Disclaimer- I, very sadly, must admit that I own… nothing of this story. But, I do however own the half assed plot, and any one you don't recognize, which I'm not sure if their will be.

Warnings- This will be, as my name suggests, slash or yaoi they are the same thing. If you don't know what it is, go look it up. There will also be a liberal amount of cussing and angst, because I can. Also many hints, if not outright, of abuse mainly to our lovely tragic hero, Harry. This piece of randomness is also very much AU, again because I can. Very dark. That's all I can think of for now.

Memories

My Savior

He had beaten Voldemort. He was free and happy and no doubt those stupid muggles parents were spoiling him rotten because of his amazing victory. So why the bloody hell was Harry-bloody-Potter, The Savior of the World, The-Boy-Who-lived, and The Most Famous Sixteen year old in the wizarding world for fucks sake, outside at three in the morning with a knife cutting himself?

He has everything a boy could want, fame money, power, beauty, a family who spoiled him rotten, so why did he look miserable?

Why was he crying silent tears that ran slowly down his face? Why did he look like the world had ended?

Why?

I don't understand.

He has the perfect life. Why do this?

Is it for publicity? No, look he just cut his wrists, downwards. Surely he's heard the saying, Horizontal for Hospital, Downwards for Death. So it cant be publicity, those cuts are deep, wait. There are more cuts, old ones, all over his arms.

Does this boy really want to die? He's lost a lot of blood already; I can smell it from here. I can't let him die.

With this thought in mind the silent deadly shadow stalked towards the broken crying boy on the lawn.

Elsewhere…

"Sir, you should see this."

"What is it?"

"Harry Potter's magik disappeared."

"What?!?" The man walked over. "Damn. What the hell could have happened?"

"You don't think he's… you know…"

"Dead?"

"Yeah."

"I sure as hell hope not."

"Contact Dumbledore, maybe they know what the bleeding hell is going on."

"If they don't?"

"Then lets hope he can figure it out before the minister of magik finds out finds out."

The younger man gulped, and walked over to the left to talk to the second, or maybe first if the boy was really dead, most feared wizard alive.

Again, Elsewhere…

He placed the beautiful messy haired boy on his four-poster bed gently. After back the black comforter and white sheets he tucked in the unconscious boy. He really had lost too much blood. After making sure the boy was comfortably situated he pulled up and old fashioned straight-backed padded chair and sat down in it with a grace so few people have.

Gently snatching the unconscious boys hand he delved into his mind to try and figure out what in the nine hells had possessed this boy to try to take his life. Slowly he reached forward mentally, gradually pushing through the boys mind walls. When he found his memories he was snatched into a wild storm of emotions and pain and fear and love and a thousand other emotions that only those who have seen and experienced death first hand would understand.

Voosh.

Dumbledore introducing him to some elves, telling him that Harry was going to train with him in his summer between sixth and seventh years. Harry just staring dumbly. Finding out about the three towers of Magery and swordsmanship. Saying that in those three short months he could become a master swordsman or a Master, if not Adapt level Mage. Or if he worked hard, everyday and every night living off a few hours, become both. It was his choice. He blindly and stupidly the latter.

Voosh.

Standing before the gates of the gray tower, sword slung over his back, armor magiked into a proper gray. Entering slowly, fearful of what was inside. Finding out they didn't take the war seriously, the stupid neutrality, leaving to find something better, somewhere were they could teach him how to win this damned war they signed him up for.

Voosh

Black tower. So tall. Intimidating. He walked up bravely and couldn't find a door. He walked into the dark wooden door, wait, there wasn't a door. Him deciding that he wanted in one-way or another and blowing a huge hole into the side of the tower.

Climbing 20 flights of stairs to come to a large dark wood door, knocking, and no answer. Entering cautiously, a man sitting on his desk, a strange grin on his face, telling Harry more about this man then anything he learned afterward.

Voosh.

Meeting his 'instructors', all of them sadistic bastards with only one goal in mind: Make his life hell.

Voosh.

He was in a weapons salle there were people their telling him what to do and how to do it. A bright flash of silver metal and a loud clanging sound reached his ears. He had blocked the oncoming blow. His teacher telling him he was a natural. Him smiling before getting beat by a lady half his size and twice his strength, his broadsword growing steadily heavier in his hand.

Voosh.

He was in a candle lit room with a hint of beeswax drifting through the air. An old bent over man with long silver hair was poring over a tome, telling him that he needed to shield him self or the enemy would get him mentally. Learning occolomccy, when Snape had failed to teach him.

Voosh.

Memories passing by, melding into one horrific nightmare.

Hours seeming like days. Days feeling like weeks. Weeks like months. Months feeling like years. And the years a lifetime.

Training until he wanted to die.

Training until he almost did die.

Training from when he woke up a four until he collapsed at midnight in his bed, to tired to even feel. Always knowing that in a few hours he'd get up to do it all over again. The feeling of pain and wariness hanging over his every waking moment and into his nightmares at night. Not getting sleep because Voldemort decided to send him visions about what he did every night, those visions becoming the only real reason he got up in the morning.

Voosh.

His first kill. The blood on his sword and arms mixing with his silent tears for the man he killed. Just for this war. Just so that I could live. And for what? To kill more men and woman and people who had nothing to do with this dammed war.

Voosh.

Voldemort stood before him his presence a black spot in his vision. The bastard wouldn't fucking die. He had several sword wounds and he had been Avada Kavada twice. So why won't he fucking die already? Taking a deep breath he began to chant a spell so few people knew that it was considered a myth even between powerful Adapts, and of those that knew it no one dared use it. That amount of energy needed only came along once for every few life times and even then if you used it and it didn't work the mage who cast it would be in serious trouble. He unleashed the spell upon the inhuman monster that had haunted his young life for 16 long years, and passed out.

Voosh.

Pain. Hate. Wanna die. Lost. Lonely. Death. Fear. Pain.

Gasping the mysterious man jumped out of the poor boys mind, thoroughly shaken. This poor, poor boy had gone through so much, how could no one have noticed it before hand? He was the most famous wizard of this time, yet no one could tell how much he hated himself. Hated his fame. Hated every one around him. How did no one see the scars? No one could believe that they were all from war could they? Even he didn't have that many scars and he'd been fighting for centuries before this bo-man had been born.

And the reasons for this, damn it wasn't fair. He was only sixteen; it just wasn't fair that all that shit had happened to him.

He stood up and streaked before walking over to the liquor cabinet and getting something strong to drink. After going into that boys mind he needed it badly.

Looking at the chair he had been sitting in he decided that to hell with it, it was fucking uncomfortable, so he changed it into a big squashy armchair that practically screamed 'Soft! Sit in me!' So he did. Holding his whiskey in one hand and massaging his pounding temples with the other he tried to think about what to do with this boy, no man, that he had saved.

So much darkness.

Is this hell? It does feel like it. I'm to cold. He could feel spiders crawling all over his skin, maggots eating away at his blood. The small boy shivered and opened his eyes and let out a tiny moan of pain before shutting his eyes again. Okay now I'm going to open them again and I'm going to be in my closet at the Dursley's and they are about to beat me for not getting up ion time. Or did they already beat me and I forgot because they hit me in the head to hard so now I'm hallucinating? The green-eyed blacked haired boy thought to him self.

He opened his eyes and looked around. There wasn't much to see. He was in a huge four-poster bed with green silk hangings with silver lining; the sheets were soft and warm. Their soft white stood out against the black of the comforter, which he must have thrown off in the night sometime. Slowly he sat up and parted the bed hangings. And let out a sharp gasp of surprise.

The man looked up from his thick book and smiled,

"I see you're finally awake, Harry. How are you feeling" Harry looked at him one more time before passing out from the complete surprise of what was going on mixed with the intense feeling of hornets stinging him from the inside, while centipedes dance around in his veins.

A/N- Hi-o!!! Thank you for reading this piece of randomness given to me form my lovely muse. He asks that you please Read and Review, since Reviews are what he lives off. And that boost my ego. So please review and I'll give you a cookie. .