Title: Run Through the Raindrops

Author: Sword of the

Disclaimer: Standard

Pairing: HP/LV(TR)

Warnings: Slash

Summary: Mad. Insane. Lost. Crazy. Cracked. That's what Harry is. But suddenly, the Dark Lord had a new found interest him, one that could change him forever.

Rating: PG-13, possibly R

Chapter One

Wide Open Door of Insanity

Harry shivered from the cold, pulling his legs close to his chest and holding them there for warmth, futile as he knew his actions would be. The remains of Dudley's hand-me-down castoffs were soiled and torn and not quite deserving of even being called rags. His skin was streaked with dirt and blood and sweat, his eyes puffy and glistening from unshed tears.

His long ebony hair, matted and thick, was as uncontrollable as ever, tangling down to his shoulders. Bright emerald eyes peered nearsightedly at his surroundings, his glasses lost long ago. Without the thick panes of glass his eyes seemed so much more expressive, showing fully the depth of his misery and torment.

He frowned, peering at the rough scratch marks on the wall and trying awkwardly to remember. How long had it been? Days, weeks, years? He could not recall the last time he had been outside of the confines of his cell.

His chapped, pale lips curved upward in a mischevious smile, eyes half-lidded and face relaxed. "Poor little Potter, all alone," he sang, eyes glowing with an insane light, "trapped in the place he once called home."

He giggled at his rather elementary rhyme, the sound grating and harsh after his vocal cords had grown rough from endless disuse. He gazed up at the ceiling, eyes fixated on some flickering picture that only he could see. "Here he stays inside his cell, wishing that he was in hell."

Harry stretched his hands high above him, splaying his fingers wide and focusing on them with huge green eyes. He waved them about for a few moments before dropping his arms abruptly and focusing them on the skeletal remains across from him. "Here he sits among the dead, listening to voices in his head."

He crawled over to the skeleton, lurching about on all fours. He leaned back, sitting on his hind legs and regarding the bones calmly. Empty eye sockets studied him silently, crooked teeth slightly agape in a last ditch effort to draw struggling breaths. He ran a pale, long-finge across the skeleton's face as if brushing aside a stray lock of invisible hair.

"The dead are the ones who really know, trapped as they are in their world below." He tilted his head to one side as if enquireing of the skeleton is this were truly so.

"A world which Potter wants to join, but for passage he has no coin." He sulked at this bit, eyes glazed over at the thought.

"How will he cross the River Styx? Perhaps he'll come up with some clever tricks?" He shut one eye firmly and widened the other as much as possible, appearing like those of some ethereal nymph.

He leaned forward and kissed the skeleton gently on the forehead. He drew back slightly to contemplate the skeleton once more, hands cupping its bony cheeks gently and thumbs caressing softly.

He did not hear the noise that screeching of his cell door opening into the rest of the world once more. The hinges were rusty and unoiled, not having been used in long years. The wood door itself was beginning to rot and would soon be in need of a replacement.

Two black figures, faces hidden behind dark masks and bodies cloaked by flowing ebony robes regarded the shriveled, disheveled figure before them silently.

"Potter wants to see the sun, just once more 'fore his life is done." Harry looked at the low ceiling of the room pitifully, willing the bright beams of light to shine through the thick stone and illuminate his world of shadows and darkness.

"Nothing left for which to live, no thing left for him to give." He began to play a of pat-a-cake with the skeleton, delighting in the simple childhood which he had never really had the chance to enjoy before.

"He's even crazier than the ones in Azkaban," the shorter figure whispered disdainfully, a faint sneer evident in his condescending tone. Harry whipped around to face the voice, eyes widening at the sight of another person. He had not had anyone to talk to besides the apparations and hallucinations that came to him occasionally.

"People come to see the boy, maybe they'll bring him a toy!" he cried out joyfully, arms outstretched as if waiting for something to be placed in them.

"You know, Potter, I remember the day you were put in here. You were screaming that you'd never break, no matter what was done to you." The man leaned back against the wall and crossed his arms casually, bringing one leg up to rest against the wall.

"Potter doesn't recall the day, try as hard as he may."

"Do you always speak in rhymes now, Potter?"

"Words are simply a thing for fools, ones who often die in duels."

The shorter figure turned to his partner, cocking his head to one side. "Did that make any sense at all to you?"

"He's stark raving mad, he is," the man responded with just the slightest hint of an uncultured twang to his voice, almost covered up by years of practice. "Ne'er be right in the head again, if yeh ask me."

"Perhaps his head is in the left, now that he is completely bereft," Harry suggested, smiling sunnily.

The shorter man chortled, amused at the words. "Can't imagine what the Dark Lord wants with him. The only thing he's good for is a laugh and a punching bag." He punctuated these words with a swift kick to the ribs.

Harry merely giggled, enjoying the sensation. "Big bad man gives him a kick, Potter will beat him with a stick."

The taller man moved towards the young man as well. "Best get him to Master now. We're not supposed to damage him or we'll soon be joining him."

"Alright," the shorter man agreed reluctantly, hauling up the emaciated Harry from the floor.

"Don't take him away from his only friend, or his mind can never mend!" Harry pleaded, struggling to rejoin the skeleton. He was light and skinny and weak, however, and was easily overpowered by the single man.

He fought all the way through the dark stone corridors, heaped with bits of crumbled rocks that came from obvious holes in the wall. No attempt at repairs had been made, and even the castle itself seemed to give up the effort as futile. Dust coated the floor thickly, the heavy treads of the small group stirring up darkly glittering swirls of the stuff until it hovered in the air before and behind them. Somehow it made them seem like they were moviing through a vicuous liquid, one where moving too quickly could be the death of them all.

"Potter says to leave and go, Potter's trying to tell you no!" he shrieked at the two men, who simply ignored him and continued on their way. "Stupid men and their stupid lord, nothing more than a stupid horde."

The taller man gave an exasperated groan and, with a quick flick of his wrist, held his wand in his left hand. "Silencio!"

"Idiot men with their idiot sticks, not working are their idiot tricks."

The two men stopped, staring at their captive in awe. "He shouldn't be able to do that!" the taller man complained, dismayed that his spell had failed. "No one can throw off a hex like tha' without a wand! Can't be done!"

The other simply clucked his tongue and gave off the impression of sarcastically rolling his eyes, even though they could not be seen. "He obviously did, didn't he?"

"But he shouldn't've been-" He was sharply cut off with a curt gesture.

"This is Potter, you fool. He's more powerful than Dumbledore."

"I know tha', but he still should be weakened. The Dementors have been at him once every couple of days and it's almost a legend 'ow he can't stand them."

He was answered with a short, one shouldered shrug. "He's already proven himself to be easily adaptable to just about anything his destiny throws his way. Growing somewhat resistant to the Dementors isn't all that hard to picture."

"It's still not possible!" he argued, huffing slightly in annoyance.

The other merely made a sweep of his hand that indicated that the other could believe whatever he wished. "It's all really speculation, anyway. Now I suggest we bring him before our master before he grows impatient."

The cloaked man resettled Harry in his arms and trailed after his companion, muttering the entire time about how hard he worked for so little reward.

Harry was shoved roughly to his knees in the midst of the Great Hall.

Gone were the banners from the four Houses, the great long tables, and the air of general contentment that had once permeated from the grand stone room. The charms on the ceiling had been left to fade, leaving the rafters dark and gloomy, red eyes of birds and bats peering down eerily at the assembled humans from them.

The only things that remained unchanged were the raised dais and the grand size of the room.

A magnificent throne, constructed entirely out of yew wood with jade inlays, drew the eye to it immediately upon entering. It was here that Voldemort held complete sway; here that he received reports and gave orders and ran the world.

He lounged there now, legs stretched out before him and long fingers tapping against his chin idly. This was not the man that Harry had fought before.

"Who are you?" he asked, eyes narrowing. "He'll be mad if you sit in his throne."

"What's this?" Voldemort asked of the two men. "How dare you bring this ungrateful piece of filth before me?" He reached for his wand, prompting hasty bows and stumbled explanations from the men.

"This is Potter, milord, you asked to see him, and-"

"Potter? Surely Potter has more... fight in him."

"This is him, milord. He's quite insane."

"I can tell that," Voldemort snapped impatiently. Then, turning to Harry, he asked, "What are you waiting for?", beckoning for the boy to come foreward with a crooked finger.

Harry skipped up the stone steps, "What are you doing in the throne? He won't like it. Oh, he won't like it at all. Lucius Malfoy tried to sit there once. He's dead now."

"I sit here because it is my rightful place."

"Oh." Harry shrugged. "So you killed him?"

"Hardly."

Harry peered closely at the man seated before him. His hair was thick and black, mostly pulled back into a low ponytail but tendrils escaping into his violet and crimson eyes. He had fine, elegant features, and a smirk permanently settled on his lips.

"Tom!" Harry greeted jovially. "It's been such a long time! I'm sorry about that Basilisk of yours, but you see, it was going to kill me-"

He stopped when Voldemort began to laugh.

Voldemort grabbed his chin with firm fingers, forcing Harry to look up at him. Gingerly, almost tenderly, he brushed oily black locks away from emerald eyes. "You'll be such a pretty prize, Potter, once you're cleaned up a bit."

Harry just blinked at him, uncomprehending.

"Have him cleaned up. I'll see him after he's done."