A/N: This is a little adaptation of a few other similar fics I've read. I've set it up to continue it, but whether I actually do or not is debatable. I'm not very good at sticking with things. Nevertheless, I hope you enjoy!

Tom Riddle, or as He preferred to be called, Lord Voldemort ('The Dark Lord' was also considered acceptable) regarded the empty chamber provided with a critical eye. Behind Him stood Lucius Malfoy, one of His loyal followers, and the owner of the house (well, Manor) they stood in.

"It will suffice," He said, voice high and cold, and He noticed a barely perceptible sigh of relief whisper through the air. He allowed His lips to twist into a cruel smirk, unseen to Lucius.

"I am not to be disturbed," He continued. "Any interruption to the ritual may prove cataclysmic. The ritual itself will take three days and nights, and I may desire to wait longer before bringing the creature to meet with my Death Eaters. I care not for what happens in the world, I am to be disturbed for nothing, is that clear?"

Lucius' voice, slick with the weight of worship, echoed through the empty room, repeated cadences of 'Yes, my Lord,' reflecting from the walls of the great chamber. "The house elf, Trippy, will be available for you to summon, should you require anything, my Lord," he continued.

"Of course. Now leave. I shall need to prepare before midnight."

Lucius bowed, before backing out of the room, closing the doors behind him. Voldemort waved His wand absently at them, and the heavy thunk of the lock closing sang throughout the whole Manor.

Producing from His heavy black robes a cruel knife that glinted in the light of the sconces that lined the walls, He carefully sliced into His wrist, letting hot red blood run thick from His veins.

Using His wand to direct the blood, He traced out the runes which He had so meticulously memorised, preparing the sigil that would summon and bind to Him a creature from Hell. Normally, for rituals that required blood, He would use the blood of another, one of His followers, or perhaps an enemy, such as one of Dumbledore's resistance group, the Order of the Phoenix. The Ministry had, in times past, been considered an enemy, but now, with Minister Fudge so firmly sticking his head in the sand, and running his little smear campaign against those who claimed the return of Lord Voldemort (mainly Dumbledore and his precious brat, Harry Potter), they posed no opposition to Him.

However, He used His own blood for this ritual, as the creature would be bound to the one whose blood was sacrificed. In this case, the risk of the creature not being under His full control was too large to be ignored in favour of reducing His own sacrifice.

If you want something done right, you have to do it yourself, He mused.

The sigil now complete, He healed His arm with a careful flick of His wand, before vanishing the remaining blood. There could be no faults in the symbols, even just one drop out of place could ruin everything. He checked, and double checked, and triple checked, using a critical eye to ensure everything was perfect, everything was as it needed to be.

In the moment of change, the instant in which one day became the next, the second when the clock ticked over and rang the chimes of midnight, Lord Voldemort began to cast.

A low voice chanted words in a language long forgotten to mortal men, a language that existed only in the yellowing pages of ancient tomes. His timing was paced, the perfection that came from many hours of practice, His tone and volume rising and falling as the raw power flew from His tongue, weaving an intricate spell to open the portal.

As the hour drew on, He began to feel the strain on His magic, but yet He persevered. And when the clock struck one, the spell was done.

A blinding flash of dark light, and in the centre of the room, was a thin black line. It floated in mid-air, barely three inches long, jagged and rough. This, He knew, was the beginnings of the portal. It would take 70 hours for the portal to open wide enough to be of any use, and then the final hour of the ritual would pull the creature to Him.

The portal was not so much black as an absence of anything else, He noted. It seemed to pulse with an eerie energy, giving off a sense of foreboding. Many lesser men would fear it, would run in terror or stop the ritual, closing off the portal. But Lord Voldemort was not a lesser man. He was immortal, and He had naught to fear.

As the hours dragged on, He continued to feed His magic into the portal, the tear in the very fabric of reality, coaxing it to grow in size, slowly swelling to three metres tall and two wide. And on the third night, as the hour became eleven, He began to chant once more.

The ancient language rolled off His tongue as though He had been speaking it His whole life, the result of the hours He had spent cooped up in the Malfoy family library, repeating the words and cadences over and over, to ensure they were perfect. Magic filled the room, rushing around Him and through the portal, searching for the creature worthy of serving Him. He felt it catch, and He used the words He had so meticulously learnt to pull, a body coming through the portal and landing on the ground within the ritual circle.

The jagged black tear snapped closed, leaving no sign it was ever there to begin with, as Lord Voldemort attempted to not collapse with exhaustion. He would need to show no sign of weakness, to assume complete command of the creature now bound to Him. The book had said that these Hollows were animalistic, and would fight against the authority of one weaker than themselves. He could not show weakness, for He could not have a servant who challenged Him at every turn.

He turned His gaze to the creature. It did not in any way resemble the images that the book had shown, however the book had also stated that each and every Hollow was unique. But, this one just looked... human.

It stood up, rapidly, and turned to face Him, blue eyes narrowing. There were small teal markings on the outside of each eye, and its hair colour was a sky blue, a similar but slightly lighter colour to its eyes. It greatly resembled a human male, aside from the white bone fragment on its right cheek and the perfectly circular hole in its abdomen. It was well built, strong looking, and a sheathed sword hung by its waist.

It said something to Him, however He could not comprehend it. Did the creature even speak English? He could use a translation charm, but He would rather not. They were not known for being completely accurate. Maybe the creature simply did not realise it was now in England.

"Greetings, Hollow," He called, voice powerful and commanding. "Welcome to the Living World."

It grinned, a terrifying grin, revealing teeth just a little too pointed to be human. "English, huh? I can manage that." It spoke with an accent, one that He could not immediately place, but it was no matter. Irregardless of English being a major language in the living world, He could hardly expect the creatures of Hell to speak it naturally too. "Who the fuck are you, then?"

He frowned at the crass language, but carried on. It was nonsensical to start disagreements so early, after all. "I am Lord Voldemort, your new master. Have you a name, Hollow?"

The grin grew a little wider. "Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez, pleasure to make your acquaintance." There was a mocking lilt to its voice. "You mind telling me how the hell you fucking brought me here? 'Cause I'm at a loss."

"The ritual I performed was designed to drag a creature from Hell, a Hollow, to the caster and bind it to them through sacrifice of their blood. I have, as you can see, used the blood that runs through my very own veins to draw the sigil, and the first part of the ritual opens the portal. Then, it was a simple matter of sending magic through the portal to choose a strong creature, bring it back here, and bind it to my commands."

He spoke imperiously, and the creature looked curiously at the symbols on the smooth stone floor. It dropped into a crouch, and ran its finger through the blood, which remained wet through the means of the ritual. It inspected it carefully, rubbing it over its fingers and sniffing it, before standing back up, wiping its hand on its white trousers.

"You're right, you know. I am bound to protect and serve the one who has this blood, until they die. I cannot return to Hueco Mundo until then. And I can't even kill the fucker to get out of it."

His lips curved into a victorious smile. This creature was His for the rest of His life. And considering the existence of His Horcruxes, that would be a very long time.

"However," it continued, "that's not you."

What? Impossible. "That cannot be," He said. "The blood on the floor spilled from my very own veins."

In an instant, the creature was right in front of Him, and before He could curb His instinctive reaction, He flinched backwards. How did it do that? It should not have been able to leave the circle until He gave it permission. It grinned, before leaning forward and inhaling deeply.

"Oh yes, this blood came out of your veins, but it's not yours. For some reason, someone else's blood runs through your body."

Someone else's... Potter.

The ritual used to resurrect Him used the blood of His enemy, Harry Potter's blood, and it was his blood that resided in His veins. He had chosen Potter so as to circumvent the protection Lily Potter had left upon her son, for the protection lived in Potter's blood, and so, when the blood resided in Him, He could then kill the brat.

But now...

"Ah, I can see the comprehension on your face. You've realised how you fucked up yet, asshole? I'm not bound to you. You cannot command me. I will not serve you."

Well, the attempt had failed. Better to cut His losses now and make another attempt. He would allow one of His Death Eaters the honour of commanding a creature to serve Lord Voldemort. He wasn't sure who, if only Bella was not in Azkaban... perhaps He should advance the timeline for the breakout.

"Then I shall simply kill you, and be done with it."

The creature outright laughed. "I'd like to see you try, Lord Voldemort," it said, mockingly, as it stepped back from Him. It made no move to draw its sword, or to even take a defensive stance. However, He would not bother with the formalities of honourable death for this thing. After all, it was not even human.

"Avada Kedavra!"

The green light shot from His wand, racing towards the creature where it stood, and...

Hit the opposite wall.

The creature had disappeared, but a large hole in the wall to His left gave evidence to where it might have gone. Dust billowed as the crash of crumbling stone echoed through the large manor.

Flicking His wand angrily to clear the dust, He exited the room through the new gap and looked down the expansive hallway. Everything to the right looked completely normal but the corridor on the left ended at a large window.

A broken window.

He strode to the window and looked out. The ground three stories below was littered with glass, removing any doubt that the creature had not gotten out this way. He scanned the ground, but saw nothing. He did not expect to. If the creature could move that fast, fast enough to not be seen, fast enough to outpace a curse, then it would be long gone from here.

It would be making its way to Potter.

Lord Voldemort did not swear. He was above such things.

But in that moment, He was sorely tempted.

Harry James Potter had been feeling... off, for the last three days. He wasn't ill, or in pain, he certainly wasn't experiencing any emotions from his scar, which was his connection to Voldemort, but he did feel like something wasn't right.

He had little time to think on it during the days, his aunt loading him with chore after chore, and he worked tirelessly in the sweltering hot summer days. But once the sun set, his time was entirely his own, and he was free to let his mind wander as much as he pleased.

He was filled with an ominous sense of foreboding. Like something was about to happen, something very wrong, fundamentally unnatural. He'd mentioned as such in his latest letter to his godfather, Sirius, and had yet to hear back. Honestly though, Harry's hopes weren't high. Lately, all communication from his godfather and his two friends, Ron and Hermione, had been completely devoid of any actual information regarding anything in the wizarding world.

There was little he could do about it, however, but grit his teeth and revamp his attempts to listen in on his aunt and uncle watching the evening news, waiting desperately for any sign of what Voldemort was up to.

His latest attempt had failed when he had heard the sharp crack that accompanied the sound of a wizard Apparating or Disapparating, and he had stood up sharply from his position in the front garden bed, hitting his head on the open window.

There had been a brief confrontation with his uncle, who accused him of making the noise and then berated him for listening to the news. Harry had ended it by walking off, striding down the street before Uncle Vernon or Aunt Petunia could stop him.

His frustrated pace had brought him to where he had been for the last few hours, the small park at the end of Magnolia Road. He lost track of the hours as he brooded on the betrayal of his friends, on the injustice of his situation. If it wasn't for him, no one would even know Voldemort was back! He had fought the snake faced Dark Lord himself, and his reward was to be stuck in the Muggle world for a whole month, with no news about the magical world whatsoever!

Broken from his musings by the sound of his cousin, Dudley, and his gang passing by, Harry stood. He'd have to get back to Number Four, Privet Drive before Dudley if he wanted to be allowed breakfast tomorrow.

Dudley split from his friends at the entrance to Magnolia Crescent, and Harry quickened his pace to walk beside his cousin. Harry's taunts gave him great satisfaction, to be siphoning his frustration into something. However, Dudley pulled out his trump card (Harry's nightmares, filled with memories of Cedric dying, over and over and over-), and the frustration turned into fury. Harry's scar panged painfully, but he paid it no mind, instead pinning Dudley to the wall of the small alley they were in with his wand. Had he bothered to analyse his emotions, he might have noticed that the anger was not entirely his own.

Suddenly, the alley was dark. The stars had vanished, hidden behind thick clouds, and a deep iciness filled the air. Harry recognised this feeling.

Dementors.

Everything happened so quickly. Dudley, believing the terror he was feeling was Harry's fault, punched him, and Harry's wand went flying. Dudley ran, however he could not see the Dementor, and so was running right at it. Harry fumbled in the darkness for his wand, while shouting at Dudley to keep his mouth shut. He reclaimed his wand, and cast the spell to drive them off.

But the Patronus Charm failed.

He tried again, desperately trying to concentrate on the happy thoughts he needed to chase away the Dementors, but once more failed.

This is it, he thought. I'm going to die.

And then the Dementor vanished from above him, an awful shrieking sound echoing in the air. Another joined it, and the oppressive atmosphere the soul-sucking creatures brought with them disappeared completely.

Harry stood up, shaking with adrenaline. Dudley lay, curled up in a ball, whimpering, however, he still seemed to have his soul. There were two puddles of black, putrid goo, one near him and the other closer to Harry, but the most striking thing was the man standing in the centre of the alley.

Bright white clothes with a smear of blood down one leg, blue hair and a hole through his abdomen, he stood directly in the middle of the alley, a sword gripped in his right hand, dripping with the same black goo.

The Dementors, Harry realised. The puddles of goo were the Dementors. This... man, he supposed, though he was certainly not human, had killed them.

He opened his mouth to thank the man, but was interrupted by footsteps behind him. He whirled around, pointing his wand at the newcomer, vaguely aware of the man in white tensing as if in preparation for another attack.

When he recognised his neighbour, Mrs. Figg, Harry hastily attempted to hide his wand, but she surprised him by telling him to not put it away, in case of more Dementors, before ranting about the incompetence of someone called Mundungus Fletcher. As it turned out, she was a Squib, the non-magical child of a witch or wizard, who was working with Dumbledore. She paid no mind to the man in white, marching straight over to Dudley and prodding at him to get up.

Dudley did not move, rather remaining on the ground, trembling. Harry, with some difficultly, helped him up, and they began the walk back to the Dursley's house. It was very challenging hauling Dudley along while keeping his wand out, but Mrs. Figg was insistent on Harry having it in his hand, despite the fact that the man in white was following them, and had just proven himself very capable of dealing with a couple of Dementors (admittedly, not in any way Harry had ever seen before).

The reappearance of Mundungus Fletcher provided great entertainment to the man, as evidenced by his hearty laughter. Perhaps it was not so much his appearance as Mrs. Figg's attack on him, swinging her tartan handbag at the wizard. It was likely filled with tins of cat food, judging by the clanking sound it made.

After Mundungus Disapparated, to inform Dumbledore of what had happened, they continued on to Privet Drive. Mrs. Figg had still not said anything regarding the man behind them. In fact, she had shown no indication that she knew he was there.

Maybe she didn't, Harry thought. Maybe only wizards can see him. Dudley didn't seem to know he was there, but he wasn't really in any fit state to notice anything. Mundungus hadn't said anything, but he had been rather preoccupied.

Mrs. Figg walked him and Dudley to their front gate, before hastily turning to go home, she said, looking apprehensively at the skies. She walked away, despite Harry's attempts to call her back. The man grinned, leaning against the fence, and Harry turned to glare at him.

"Are you from Dumbledore too?" He asked angrily.

"I don't even know who the fuck that is," the man replied. "You'd better get inside, he doesn't look too good." He gestured at Dudley, who was indeed looking rather green. "I'll stay out here in case more of those shits come back."

Harry scowled but obeyed, putting his wand away and hauling Dudley up the path. Aunt Petunia opened the door just in time to watch her precious Diddykins throw up all over the welcome mat.

Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez sighed, leaning against the wall next to the window. Where he was standing, he couldn't be seen by any of the four people in the kitchen (although two of them didn't have enough spiritual pressure to see him at all and the third would only be able to see a blurry indistinct shape), but he could hear perfectly.

In between the two adults accusing the boy of harming their son, the talking letter announcing expulsion, the explanation about the Hollow attack (Dementors, he called them), a second talking letter reversing the expulsion until a disciplinary hearing could take place, the argument regarding whether or not the boy could stay and the revelation that this 'Lord Voldemort' character who had summoned Grimmjow was trying to kill the boy, the Sixth Espada realised just how shit his situation was.

The uncle and aunt, as he determined them to be, eventually decided that 'the boy', as they referred to him, would have to stay, and sent him to his room. Grimmjow could hear them fussing over their 'precious son' as their nephew retreated upstairs. Their magical nephew.

Aizen (well, actually it was Ichimaru who conducted the lessons, but since he was doing it on Aizen's orders, it meant the same thing) had told the Arrancar about wizards. Rather like the Quincy, wizards and witches were spiritually aware humans who learnt to use their reiryoku to do unnatural things. They called it magic, shinigami called it kido, but they were, fundamentally, the same. Even a Hollow's cero could be reproduced using magic, if a wizard bothered to figure out how. However, most witches and wizards were not aware of the true nature of Hollows, and Aizen had determined that they were not likely to be a threat to the denizens of Las Noches, or to his grand plans.

And now Grimmjow was bound to one of them, stuck protecting the kid (Harry, the batty old woman had called him) until his death. Just great.

With a quick flash of sonido, Grimmjow leapt up to perch on the kid's windowsill. He was bent over his desk, scrawling onto - was that parchment? And a quill. Christ. He wrote out the same phrase three times, onto three separate pieces of parchment, before looking up.

Grimmjow greatly enjoyed the sight of the kid practically jumping out of his skin, but he didn't want the aunt and uncle interrupting, so he flashed forward and put his hand over the kid's mouth.

"Shut up, else those fuckers you call relatives will be up here. I ain't gonna hurt you." The kid's eyes were wide with fear, but he nodded, so Grimmjow removed his hand. "Now then, what's your name?"

"Harry Potter," he replied, only the faintest quiver in his voice.

"Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez. I expect you've got questions, yeah? I'll answer what I can for you." He stepped back, sitting on the kid's desk, and gestured expectantly.

"Umm, well, what are you? Why did you save me? How did you save me? I didn't think it was possible to kill Dementors, only drive them off, and, like, you didn't use magic, you used a sword, but, um... yeah," he finished lamely.

Grimmjow chuckled. "So, what I am, is an Arrancar. I'm the soul of a human who died a few decades ago, became a Hollow, which is basically like a different breed of these Dementors, got stronger and was eventually able to gain shinigami, or Soul Reaper, abilities. How I saved you is simple - my sword is actually a zanpakuto. It's designed to work on spirits rather than living things, although it can certainly do that too if I want it to. As to why I saved you, well, I have to."

"You have to? Why? I mean, its not like you owe me a debt or anything, do you?" His head was tilted in confusion.

"No, I don't owe you a debt." Running his hand through his hair, Grimmjow sighed. "You might want to sit down. This could take a while." Once Harry was seated on the bed, looking expectantly at his houseguest, Grimmjow started.

"So, as I understand it, you already know this Voldemort guy. Well, he summoned me, so that I could serve him. I don't fucking know how he did it, but the ritual used blood, and it would bind me to whoever the blood was. I would have to protect and serve that person. But the thing is, the blood in his body isn't his, it's yours, for some reason. So, now I'm bound to you instead."

"Bound to me? What does that mean?"

"I am forced to protect and serve you, for the rest of your life. If you are in danger, I will be compelled to eliminate the danger. If you ask me to do something, I will be compelled to do that, although I'm fucking strong enough to fight the compulsion, so don't think you can be ordering me to fetch and carry for you or some shit like that. I can't lie to you, which is why I'm telling you all this shit even though I really don't want to, and I'm stuck doing all this until you die."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

"Hardly your fault. Any more questions?"

"Er, well, do you have any idea why the Dementors were after me?"

"Not a fucking clue."

"Okay. Um, could Mrs. Figg see you? She didn't say anything, so I wasn't really sure..." Harry trailed off awkwardly.

"Nah, she couldn't. Only people with high reiryoku, what you call magic, can see me. Your fat cousin couldn't see me either."

"And Mundungus?"

"He had more important things to be focusing on than me. That woman was fucking crazy."

Just then, the flutter of wings announced the arrival of a snowy white owl, who clipped Grimmjow with her wing on her way past to sit on Harry's shoulder.

"Hedwig! It's about time you got home. I have letters for you to deliver." Harry stood up, the owl looking disgruntled around her mouthful of dead frog. Grimmjow scowled at her, and she seemed to glare back. "Here," Harry said, tying the parchment scrolls to her foot. "These are for Sirius, Ron and Hermione. And I really want long answers, okay? Keep pecking them until they right them, if you have to, yeah?"

The owl hooted in a somewhat affirmative manner, the sound coming out muffled due to her full beak. She glared at Grimmjow as she flew out.

Grimmjow looked at Harry, who was watching the white speck disappear as his pet flew away. "You should get some sleep, kid, it's like one in the morning."

"Yeah. What about you? I mean, we have a spare bedroom, maybe if we're careful, Aunt Petunia won't notice, I mean, they won't be able to see you anyway, and-"

"Chill. I'm an Arrancar, remember? I don't need anywhere near as much sleep as a human would. I'm good to go for like a week without sleep. Besides, I don't quite trust that more Dementors won't come after you. I'll keep watch." With that, Grimmjow vanished out the window, using his sonido to move faster than Harry would be able to follow.

Perched on the roof, gazing up at the stars, he sighed. Now that this Voldemort guy knew that he could summon Hollows to command, if he used the blood of people who were loyal to him, he could raise an army. He would. He seemed enough like Aizen that Grimmjow was almost certain he would create an army of the most powerful creatures he could get.

And he had some kind of grudge against Harry. This army would be pitted against Harry, and therefore, Grimmjow.

Well. Never had it been said that the Sixth Espada turned down a good fight. A cocky grin spread across his face as he settled down for what would be the first of many nights to come, guarding his young charge.