Harry James Potter, Golden Boy, Boy-Who-Lived, Star Seeker, Gryffindor Lion, doubted that he would ever understand why fate hated him so damn much. Bad enough that he'd witnessed the death of Cedric in the graveyard, watched the Dark Lord return, nearly been killed by a crazed Death Eater in disguise, been all but crucified by the media and then been abandoned once more at the Dursley's by the Headmaster his Godfather and his so-called friends. He'd stewed in his own sweat and a thick miasma of spiteful teenaged angst for just over a week, occasionally taking his anger out on the latest issue of the Daily Prophet by ripping it into nearly microscopic pieces, and just when he thought that things couldn't possibly get worse this had happened.

Harry sat there on his arse in bed, shirtless and covered in a thin sheen of sweat on account of the record heatwave currently affecting the area of Little Whinging, glasses positioned haphazardly on his face, in the once place on earth he was supposed to be "safe" from him staring at Voldemort-who, he noted sourly, was currently holding his wand-and unable to do much more than hold up his bedsheets as if they might somehow stand a snowflake's chance in hell of saving him from the Killing Curse. The Dark Lord, for his part, seemed perfectly content to simply stand at the foot of his bed and stare right back at him in total silence. The soft glow of his horribly entrancing red eyes occasionally going out as he blinked.

Is this…a nightmare?

Voldemort's sibilant laughter met this fleeting thought as answer, turning the raven's blood to ice and sending his heart plummeting into his stomach like a stone. "No, Harry Potter. This is not a nightmare, but very real."

Harry felt his green eyes widen, his heart leaping back into his breast and beginning to beat a panicked tattoo against his ribs as a fresh jolt of terror flooded through him.

"You are afraid. Truly afraid for the first time while facing me. I can hear your racing heart and taste your fear. It affects you so much to know that no one is coming for you this time? That no one would even think you could possibly be in danger here, where your 'Mother's love' is meant to keep you safe?"

Through his fear, the raven aimed a torching glare at the Dark Lord and could only imaging that the bastard smirked at him in return from beneath the shadowed hood of his cloak.

"I'm sure that you're wondering how it is that I could stand before you now, despite the wards set up by Albus Dumbledore meant to keep me at bay?" when Harry didn't answer he snarled "I want to hear you ask me, boy!"

He flinched at the demand, a small disconnected portion of his mind making note of the fact that the snake-like man before him must have cast a Silencing Charm over his bedroom, and narrowed his eyes again. After a moment of struggling to find his voice he managed a raspy "how are you here?"

The Dark Lord made no comment about the disrespect in his tone, his smile growing larger; Harry could now see the ivory glint of sharp teeth through the gloom. "Though the fact that I now have your blood running through my veins gave me the ability to touch you, it did nothing to allow me to get through the wards surrounding this property."

"You tore them down, then?"

"Attempting to tear down the wards would sent Dumbledore and his Order of the Phoenix," Harry twitched at the unfamiliar name, "running to the rescue of their precious hero. A typical rash Gryffindor like you, of course, would not understand such a thing and can thereby be forgiven for such a stupid statement I suppose."

Lord Voldemort forgive anyone of anything? Harry doubted it.

"Tell me, Harry, what you know of the wards which surround this house? Surely Dumbledore has at least told his great weapon something?"

'The wards will protect you there, that is why you must return to the Dursley's each summer. Petunia's blood is your Mother's blood, as is yours, and so long as you live on that premises no one wishing harm upon you may enter.'

"But you must have done something! There's no way that you could simply pass through the wards without them stopping you: you want me dead!"

"No, Harry, I do not want you dead. I wanted you dead. You'd do best to watch your tenses." Still holding Harry's wand, Voldemort reached out with one moon-white hand and wrapped taloned spidery fingers around the bed post. The slightly scaled hand clashed violently with the dark wood. "I wanted you dead because I once believed that you could kill me. That you were destined to. But now, having had time to review my contact with you in the graveyard and having thought back on my resulting…observations I have realized that the reality is quite the opposite. Because of my actions which lead to you bearing that scar on your forehead, your life has become integral to mine."

Harry's head was already spinning from that revelation, but what he said next completely blew him away.

"And it's for that reason that Albus Dumbledore will ultimately see you dead."

What? Voldemort no longer wanted to kill him? He was somehow now integral to the Dark Lord continuing to live? Albus Dumbledore, the Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and the man that he had come to consider as something of a grandfather, wanted him dead? His disbelief was palpable, and so poignant that he couldn't even voice it.

Luckily for him, Voldemort didn't require for him to demand further elaboration this time around and continued with his explanation.

"The great Leader of the Light would not act to kill you himself, of course. Unless he comes to realize that you know tha truth of what you are. His intentions are actually quite a great deal more insidious than that. Worthy of a Dark Lord, in many ways." The grin was definitely there now. Self-satisfied and gleaming like a sharpened blade as he watched the younger wizard flounder. "He's been raising you, Harry Potter, like a pig for slaughter. He intends for you to ultimately meet me on the battle field and martyr yourself in a duel which would see us both fall."

"N-No! You're wrong!" Harry was aware that his voice had cracked and was trembling slightly. "You're lying!"

"I have never lied to you, Harry. There is nothing to be gained of me doing so, and with the cavernous difference between our power levels there is no need for me to misdirect you."

"And what would he gain?"

"Advancement of the 'Greater Good'." The reply was cold and resolute. "What does the price of the life of a single child matter when it would purchase the lives of thousands more and secure the dominance of Light Magic over Dark once and for all. So tell me, Harry Potter, are you really willing to be their hero knowing that you're expected to fall upon your sword in their name?"

He had never wanted a part in this war. Had never wanted to be a hero. Had certainly never wanted to be a martyr! Hadn't wanted to go through trials and slay a Basilisk and battle with Dementors and compete with older and much more learned Witches and Wizards. He'd wanted a normal life as a normal boy with normal parents. And it was because of Voldemort that he didn't have any of those things. But it was because of Dumbledore, it seemed, that he wouldn't even be allowed the prize which he was fighting for in the first place: his life.

And that left Harry with a difficult question to answer. Which was worse: the venomous serpent which had murdered what could have been his future or the vulture waiting to feed off its corpse?

Hadn't he been selfless enough already without being expected to die for a cause which he'd been dragged into fighting for?

"… …" Burning beneath both his own shame and the weight of the hungry sanguine gaze which rested upon him, Harry bowed his head and mumbled "I want to live," is a voice that was barely above a whisper.

Voldemort stepped closer, the act of his shadow falling across him enough to send the temperature of the room into a nosedive. "Louder, Potter. I didn't hear you."

"I want to live!" The Hat had been right.

Picking up on his thoughts, the Dark Lord purred "from one Slytherin to another, there is nothing to be ashamed of in self-preservation."

His green eyes gleamed in the dim light of the street lamp filtering in from outside. "I am not a Slytherin!"

"You are a snake in a lion's skin, Harry, and you're not fooling anyone."

Feeling annoyance beginning to crackle to life in the pit of his stomach and very much done with that particular thread of conversation, Harry searched desperately for a change of subject. Wanting to keep the Dark Lord talking, trusting that he wouldn't kill him outright-Voldemort held both Harry's wand and his own and, from the look of him when he'd woken up from yet another nightmare, had been watching him sleep for quite some time-but not willing to believe he wasn't intending to try something else. He didn't have to look far.

"What am I?" He demanded, refusing to allow himself to drop the Dark Lord's wicked gaze. "What am I that's so bloody important to your continued life? So critical to be destroyed?"

Rather than Hex him for his insolence, Voldemort actually seemed genuinely pleased to have him ask such a question. As if their conversation was going better than he'd hoped it would.

"A Proto-Horcrux." He replied immediately, red eyes drinking in the slightest shift in expression. Relishing the play of his reactions. "Due to the nature of your creation-I didn't intend to make more of them, and because of that I didn't realize sooner what you were-you are not yet a full Horcrux and will need to be completed before your true potential can be reached. And just what that true potential is can only be speculated: you are the first Human Horcrux to ever exist."

Harry felt a tug of anguish deep inside him that clawed through his flesh and twisted his guts into a painful knot. Surprisingly, perhaps horrifyingly, it was not the revelation that he'd been created, created by Voldemort, and turned into something which was no doubt evil in some capacity that affected him. But rather the knowledge that the Dark Lord hadn't meant for it to happen.

Petunia turning up her nose every time she saw him. Vernon chasing him, screaming, through the hallways. Dudley and his smelting stick and the sneering faces of his brutish friends. Monster! Orphan! Freak!

Harry had curled in on himself without a conscious thought. "I'm an accident."

"No!" There was an unexpected fierceness to the declaration and Voldemort, seemingly on reflex, reached towards him. Remembering the searing pain brought by his touch while in the graveyard the raven flinched and recoiled; the taloned fingers paused before they reached him and dropped back to the Dark Lord's side. "You are a boon. A blessing. Evidence that Fate truly does favor Lord Voldemort. You are mine, Harry Potter. My most treasured and sacred possession. And I treat my belongings with utmost care."

Wounded pride at being addressed as if he were something which could be owned and by his long time enemy no less, warred with the near ludicrous joy of being so desired by another even if it was for selfish reasons. Blessed. Fated. He'd never been called such things before and regardless of who's lips the praise now fell from Harry couldn't help but feel warm.

Still, he felt like he was being dragged away by a powerful riptide out into an endless sea of chaotic turmoil. Voldemort wanted him to join him. Dumbledore wanted him dead. He was, in some capacity, some manner of Dark object or creature called a Horcrux. It was 3 am after waking from a fitful sleep after a consecutive week of little rest and he was far too tired to properly process anything that he'd been told.

Rash Gryffindor or not, he knew that he didn't want to make a decision that he'd later regret. And where he believed that he was indeed somehow needed by Voldemort-he'd hardly still be breathing otherwise-Harry wasn't sure that everything he'd been told was the truth.

"I can't." It came out soft. Hesitant. "Not now. I need time."

He expected to find blazing fury in those red eyes when he looked up again, expected the Dark Lord to simply stun him and drag him away, but all Voldemort did was reach into the pocket of his robes and pull out not a wand but a small book and a silver bracelet.

"I wish for your potential power to be lent to me willingly, so I will allow you that time." The raven only just managed to catch the reluctance in the older wizard's voice. "The book I shall leave you with is a Parselscript version of Secrets of the Darkest Arts which will explain to you in detail what, exactly, a Horcrux is. I expect you to have memorized it by the time that you arrive, Potter. The bracelet is a portkey which will take you to my residence; the phrase to activate it is Black Lion."

Both the book and the portkey were set on the bedside table, as was his wand.

"Bear in mind, boy, that I have seven others; should you betray me and determine you would rather remain as Dumbledore's lap dog, the fact that you are my Horcrux will not stop me from destroying you."

The street lamp outside flickered briefly, and between one blink and the next the Dark Lord disappeared.

The Boy-Who-Lived ought to have been appalled at the contents of the book that he had just finished reading, or at the very least have been mildly disturbed by the fact that he'd devoured it with a marked fervor that even his Defense Against the Dark Arts text books had never garnered. To call a Horcrux evil was understating things quite spectacularly.

Darkest Art indeed.

So why was it that, after the initial shock of realizing what it was and how it was made, Harry found himself almost completely unaffected by the new information aside from what was perhaps a bit of mild nausea?

I have a piece of Voldemort's soul inside of me. That could, quite possibly, have something to do with it.

But what to do with that newfound information? Take up Voldemort's offer of protection, securing his immortality-as he now understood, having read the book he'd been assigned-and presumably receive some manner of Dark power out of the deal? Betray his friends for no other reason than because Voldemort, who had a reputation of lying to tempt people into doing as he wanted, said so? Because Dumbledore purportedly wanted he and Voldemort to kill each other and, supposedly, would even go so far as to kill him himself if he learned that Harry knew what he was.

There was too much on the line for him to simply turn his back on all he knew based merely on conjecture and motivated solely by a blind grab into a mystery bag of powers. Even if power had been any sort of motivator for him, which it wasn't, his friendships and bonds were still more valuable. Of course, that said nothing about how the people on the other end might value those bonds.

Not all that bloody much, if the complete radio silence is anything to go by! Harry thought sourly, watching the dying sunlight glinting off of the curve of the bracelet portkey that the Dark Lord had left him with as he lay in the shade of the Dursley's flowerbed, thinking over the events of that odd night the week before as he attempted to listen to the Muggle news for any possible hints of Voldemort's movements as he sheltered from the blistering heat. The Gits all threw me to the sharks! Left me to be devoured by Fudge and his thrice damned porch dogs! Maybe they deserve to have me turn on them; would certainly teach them better! And at least I can expect Voldemort to 'treat me right'…though I've some concerns about what that could potentially mean.

Harry shifted slightly to dislodge the pebble which had been digging into his left shoulder blade and slung his arm behind his head. Inside, the television cut to commercials.

He referred to me as if I were some manner of inanimate object, yet he kept looking at me like he wanted to eat me. I definitely don't like the thought of being locked away in some glass case like a trophy! As for the vague possibility that that look could possibly have meant he wanted me for something…else. I'm not sure that I'd be comfortable with paying that price for safety. I've never had much of a chance to think about love or sex-not that I'd have to worry a damn bloody bit about love around Lord Voldemort-or whether or not I'm interested in men or women or both. Sure, there was Cho last year, but that was only really because she was pretty. Draco is pretty too, the damn Prat!

He twitched off a particularly large Horse Fly which had attempted to make itself at home on his knee.

It isn't that I think he's ugly either. Sure, he's not drop dead gorgeous anymore and the lack of a nose is a little bit…off putting but the proper word for him certainly wouldn't be ugly. Nor would it be grotesque. Terrifying, definitely. Nightmarish, perhaps. But striking would fit him too, though I suppose claws and scales would have to be an acquired taste.

The raven shook himself in an effort to throw off the topic of the Dark Lord's attractiveness and whether or not he'd be able to perform should he land in a situation where sex would be expected of him. Never mind the fact that he wouldn't have the slightest clue what he was doing.

Treasured I suppose I understand, given that I am a Horcrux, but sacred? What does that mean, I wonder?

The resulting image of the Death Eaters collapsing before him and kissing the hem of his robes in much the same fashion as they did Voldemort's was equal parts gratifying and disturbing.

I think I was less uncomfortable when I was thinking about needing to have sex with him. Harry realized, bemused, as he slipped the bracelet back over the wrist of his wand hand.

"Boy!" The raven jumped so badly that he cracked the top of his head on the bottom of the windowsill, coming dangerously close to being seized around the throat by one of Vernon's meaty hands. "Lurking underneath the window! Plotting something, surely! If the neighbor's see-!

Harry didn't waited around for long enough to hear what would happen if the neighbors saw, bolting out of the yard and down the block along Privet Drive. Easily keeping a steady swift pace without breaking a sweat. Headed anywhere but there, though exactly where he'd wind up Harry didn't know.

Maybe it'd be worth betraying the whole sodding lot of them just to be able to rest assured that I'll never have to see #4 again!

Leaving the sidewalk as he pulled level with the small playground where the Housewives of Privet Drive would commonly take their young children to run out their energy, though it was deserted at the moment on account of the crippling heat. Harry crossed the small field of woodchips, he settled on one of the swings. Gently swinging back and forth, the mildly rusted chains creaking against the pole above him. Turning the bracelet absently around and around the thin bones of his wrist, marveling at its impeccable craftsmanship and the fact that it remained ice cold despite the weather and nearly constant wear.

The bracelet portkey that Voldemort had given him was, undoubtedly, the finest thing he'd ever worn in his life. Solid silver and cold hammered into the shape of a Basilisk eating its own tail, a pair of small emeralds set into where its eyes should have been and a delicate engraving of Runes etched along its spine. It was beautiful, if unquestionably Slytherin, and perhaps offered an insight into the Dark Lord's taste in jewelry.

Harry had developed a bit of a nervous tick of fiddling with it.

"Look at the freak! Out here swinging all alone like an escapee from the Looney Bin, wearing jewelry like a Poof!"

Dudley's voice issued from somewhere much too close for Harry's liking. His head snapped up and he found himself confronted by the sight of his massive cousin and his entire gang of cronies. This was the last thing he wanted to have to deal with while wrestling with a potential shift in sides.

"What do you want, Dudley? Gotten sick of beating up helpless nine year olds who can't fight back?"

"What's the matter, Potter? Didn't your Mum ever teach you manners?" his cronies cackled stupidly from behind him, reminding Harry a great deal of Crab and Goyle. "Is she dead?"

Harry saw red, leaping up from where he'd been sitting and charging towards the much larger boy. Tearing his wand from his back pocket and wedging the tip under his chin, causing the other boy to go whiter than death.

"Don't you dare talk about my Mother ever again, Dursley!" He snarled, watching the other whimper and tremble before him as his friends looked on in confusion. "If you do you may just find yourself in a position you'll regret, all things considered."

Harry was too busy glaring and threatening to fully comprehend his cousins panicked blubbering until the slew of "Sorry, I'm sorry," turned into "Stop, please! Just stop!"

Stop? Stop what? He wasn't doing anything and, despite his anger, his magic was for the moment perfectly in control.

So why had everything suddenly gone so dark and cold? Rain clouds had rolled in seemingly from nowhere at terrifying speed and, in the middle of summer in the heart of a heat wave, his breath was rising before him in a silver puff of air. All of the hairs rose along his arms and the back of his neck as it dawned on him what that meant.

"Dudley." He said sharply, stepping back from his Cousin and noting the fact that his mates had all booked it and disappeared. "Dudley, shut up! I'm not doing it!"

"Y-You're not?"

"I'm not!"

"Then what is?"

"Dementors."

"Dementors?"

"Yes." He snapped, annoyed. Green eyes darting left and right in search of the first signs of cloaked figures. "Dementors. What they are is not important: they're too dangerous to waste the time explaining!"

"W-Well, what do we do?"

Harry, clutching his wand tighter in his hand, silently prayed he wouldn't have to use it as he set his gaze on his cousin. "Run."