Trying something a little different for the fun of it. This is a response to a DZ2 challenge called 'Harry's Fall'. It won't be on any particular update schedule and will feature super/op-Harry norms and other such guidelines.

It was an accident.

An extraordinary accident, but one nonetheless.

It would be the accident that cost him everything, so that he could gain something more than what he'd been initially promised. It was unusual, abrupt, and sudden. Nearly unrealistic, a ripple in time, and yet it happened all the same. At a grand ol' twelve years of age he'd managed to have it, this… unfortunate circumstance, the subconscious unveiling of his magic. He'd needed a plate, something to slide the latest sizzling and greasy slice of bacon he'd just finished for the family that owned so much while he gained so little. He'd reached over, barely paying attention-for his aunt did not care for burnt bacon and he did not care for a ravaged backside-but knowing through muscle memory alone where his stack of plates was kept, always kept.

Yet, the cool form of the plate hit his fingertips before the assumed period and he jerked his head up just in time to hear the loud vicious scrapping of a chair behind him while his mind tried to catch up on the wonder of magic-his magic-that had acted beyond his intention. The magic that had wordlessly, wandlessly, pulled the plate into his small and quite fragile hand.

In another household, this miraculous act would have been celebrated. Certainly, noted in some book, in some dusty corner, this was an aspect of development very rarely expressed yet cherished. It was a symbol of budding power, something absolute and not yet completely managed, but certainly wanted.

But, Harry had never been wanted.

So, it's no surprise to him when agony blossoms across his cheek. It's no further surprise when his nerves cry out, twisting and churning along his form as meaty fists with adult-fashioned power swing up and down and up and down. He can't follow the blows, not this time, for the pain is a massive heat, a whipping heady pound that consumes his thoughts and brings him to scream-

He doesn't beg though, not this time, because he knows begging doesn't work. His wordless anguish is involuntary, his uncle doesn't like the noise, but he doesn't know what else to do because everything hurts so very much.

But eventually it stops, it stops right when his voice stops, when his throat is to dry and scratchy to screech and his lungs struggle and twist within his chest.

Something is broken, he's not a stranger to this concept, to the idea of being shattered, he just doesn't know what he's lost, what aches the most. He's a child after all, a wizard but still a child, lacking the increased magical presence that normally infused most pure-blooded children and gave them their leaping ticks in intellect. Is it his wrist that's broken? Or a specific bone in his pelvis? He just isn't sure, but the pain from his adventure last term is nothing compared to the agony that follows another harsh wheeze.

But, what had stopped him? Harry isn't sure, but there's a feminine blur before his blotchy gaze, one who whispers panic and disbelief while another voice behind him has been silenced. He doesn't understand why, his pain had always given his cousin great pleasure, but there's a straining question in Dudley's tone that is concerning. Yes, Harry should be concerned, concerned at the amount of red that pools beneath him, concerned by the rattle in his head, by the static in his ears that muffle a harshly spat sentence from his uncle and turn his aunt's words into shrieks of terror.

Then he's moving, dragged across the kitchen floor, past the dining room table, and into the foyer. Harry knows where he's going, where he's always gone, and he knows that the fact he can't feel the tug and pull of muscle as his arm strains to drag his weight along is a problem. But the darkness beckons and all too soon he is thrown into his cupboard to embrace the solace of the space under the stairs.

Dimness claims him shortly after that.

However, it doesn't keep him. The emptiness, the numbness, this eternal… nothing is short lived. There's a sudden brilliance, a great crack of light that envelops the space before his slumbering consciousness. Soon, there is less floating, less dreamy disconnection. Soon he is something, someone. Harry Potter, instead of the broken heavy body that he'd occupied, yet the light does not end, does not fade. Instead, he feels as if he's… burning, as if some constant thud and throb is sliding down from the scar on his forehead and oozing out from behind his eyes. His opens his mouth-or what would claim to be his mouth-but he makes no sound… instead, that something dabs lightly at the brilliance, curious as it slips from beyond his tongue.

Then it's wild, a thing that flattens and consumes until it's able to crawl across the what might have accounted for ground space around his bare feet.

Ah, everything, in fact, is bare not just his feet.

He can see that now. He's the only thing, pale among the darkness that he expels from his person. Yet, once it's out-and there is a great deal to come out-the space before him warps and shifts until he's not just among an empty metaphysical space. The darkness has manifested so much more. There are darker clusters-trees, Harry suspects-and twisting grass, pushed in a breeze he cannot feel against his flesh.

But he wriggles his toes, a childish habit, and can feel the tickle of its existence.

A forest is drawn before him, ominous in presence, until darker pockets become lighter grays and more distinguished shapes. It's like viewing the world through an old-fashioned television, he remembers the way the dark patterns moved on classic movies, when he'd been allowed to watch such things.

Long long long ago, before he'd understood what freak and magic meant.

And yet, it's not the twisting forest, still manifesting in a world of blacks and grays, that has his attention. It's the wispy figure before him, grotesque in design and phantom like in form. It's a gaunt and hollow creature, a twisted manifestation of human and inhumane and it takes Harry some time to realize that this is not another piece of the world. In fact, it takes him some time to even recognize the thing as anything other than a collection of hideous shapes. It's not the half human face, with hanging jaw opened in fury, nor the hook-like fingers that shift in the breeze he cannot feel that gives him this clue, but it's the…

It's the power that flows from its being that makes Harry tremble.

It's the cold curl that trails down his spine, the oppressive chill that invades his lungs. He's suffocating, overwhelmed by the heady weight of it, burdened in such a way that he cannot move, as if struck frozen. Yet beyond that, beyond the confusion and the primitive order to flee that rattles across his mentality like some trapped wild thought there's an instant and powerful pull of familiarity.

He knows this force, this magic.

His teeth chatter together when he gargles the name, and yet his gaze does not waver. "Voldemort."

The creature laughed, the sound is inconceivable, like nails shaken in a metal cup, like a sack of bones clattering on wood. Yet, when he speaks-no, Harry thinks, when He speaks-it's a sibilant harmony that echoes, soft and musical, "Yes, Potter, it is I."

Then it moves and Harry is stuck, paused in time. Only his lips are free as his eyes burn but the actual need to blink escapes him, "Why?"

Harry is bewildered. He thinks less and less of pushing the creature-this wraith-away and more of how he's here and the reasoning behind it.

"Why not?"

There's a pause in conversation but Harry is no longer terrified, not even when Voldemort is before him, blocking his immediate vision. An alien urge rises, one he hadn't felt last term, one that Voldemort wouldn't have inspired trapped on the back of his professor's head. It's the urge to bow, the need to surrender, to worship. Harry reached for his courage and it is not there. So, he reached for his fear, but it slumbers. Then he realized he's curious, only curious… how very Ravenclaw of him.

So, he asked, "Have you come to kill me?"

And in return, Voldemort said, with just a bit amusement to color His phrase, "Are you ready to die?"

It's an odd conversation to have for sure, even odder for a child to initiate, but was that not what he'd been told, time and time again? That he was more than just the average child? That he was the Chosen One? The-Boy-Who-Lived? That within him he held the power to vanquish and destroy and yet he spent the more mundane portions of his existence playing slave. It's disconcerting, how weary he feels, how utterly weak in the face of his enemy… but he is tired and not quite prepared to spend the rest of his days floating in terror and pain.

"I'm not very sure," He's honest with his answer, "I'd like to survive."

The wraith tilted His head, "I came to kill you." But 'came' is a past tense verb, "But I am curious, as curious as you are, about certain things."

Harry doesn't have a choice but to continue the conversation. He could beg and scream. He could attempt to end whatever this currently was, but he doesn't bother. This is a break from the pain in his body and he will take what he currently can, no matter what he would have perceived to be the best action. This is the right action.

He doesn't speak, Voldemort will ask His questions, if He has any, when He's good and ready.

"You see," He purrs, or is that more of a hiss, "you are dying, so there is no need to expend the energy I have to destroy you."

Harry's slight frown is the only proof that he's disturbed by that fact.

"The Muggles," Voldemort spat, "have done enough to ensure that."

Harry can only nod, he knew something was broken, just not the extent of what.

"I was not aware that my equal was so… terribly vulnerable. Does Albus not care?"

It takes Harry a moment to realize that Voldemort, now introspective, is talking about the Headmaster. "I'm here for my own safety."

His naivety is more like stupidity, he is not safe here and Voldemort's laugh confirms such.

"Do you know how I'm here?"

Harry's answer is a quick empty 'no'.

"It's because there is no protection here. I can feel the stirrings of olde magic-a blood ward perhaps? And yet…" Here Voldemort paused to slowly lift His arm, the robes of darkness that covered His form falling back to display skeletal hands and those wickedly gleaming fingertips, one of which He pressed to the very center of Harry's head. 'Here. I. Am."

A trail of red blossomed from the touch, but it soon faded to colorless gray, dividing Harry's face with its presence as it trickled down past his nose. "I don't… understand?"

The very tip of that finger presses deeper but the pain Harry expects never comes. "I'm saying, Mr. Potter, that something, once upon a time, existed here to protect you and yet I can feel it has shattered… worthless.

"For you see, blood magic, especially older magicks, are finicky and dare I say sentient. They make the rules, as wild as they are. They determine what is allowed and what isn't. Something here… ah yes, yes, I can hear the whispers, something here kept you safe from the outside, but never the inside. Your blood, too much of it, has infected the wards here."

Voldemort's jaw shifted, bouncing in silent laughter, "In our blood is so much more than normal terms of… Muggle or Wizard. In our blood is the level of our magic, of our madness, of our potential."

Harry's lips twisted upward in a silent snarl, he would not stand by idly and listen to purity nonsense and-

"Silence, boy," Voldemort sneered and suddenly there was pain, immense and thought shattering before Harry managed to scramble enough of his consciousness to listen again, "This is not a debate about mudbloods or otherwise."

Harry flinched but did not speak.

"Our blood holds so much information. Knowledge on who we are and what we could be. How we came to be. But more than that, it holds our real feelings and olde magic can feel that. The magic that protected you can only do so if this was a place you called home."

Harry sucked in a sharp breath and despite the oppressive sensation of Voldemort's magic and His invasive finger he could still feel the harsh pounding thud of his rapidly beating heart. "So…"

"So… is this your home, Potter? Has it ever been?"

Anger curled low in his belly, a snake that clawed at his guts and threatened to bubble out of his throat. It mingled well with a sudden grief, a choking sense of hopelessness that stole the heat from his flesh. Nothing more need be said and Voldemort seemed to sense that. Somehow, Harry knew he could read his mind, could abruptly understand every single aspect of his being in just the shadows that twisted behind the green of his gaze.

He had never been safe. Not on the outside and certainly not on the inside. This prison, his home, had been a cage from the moment he realized his name wasn't freak. He had begged his Headmaster not to send him back, but hadn't opened his mouth about the abuses-for fear had strangled his tongue at the idea of his uncle's retaliation-and yet he had still been forced to return without even knowing why.

Yet, the real reason, the reason of security, was not even a reality.

"Who… why… why am I here?" Harry croaked, trying to force words out past the tightness of his throat and the burning in his gaze. He would not cry here, not before Him. He was weak enough and very well tired of it.

"I imagine it's because Albus wants you to be." Slowly Voldemort removed His fingertip, the red of Harry's blood bright against their colorless backdrop, so very different from the grey that slipped past his trembling lips.

"But why?" Harry said, trying not to grouse.

For a moment, Voldemort was occupied, toying with the sticky moisture between His pinched fingertips, but when He spoke again it was with a husky coo of delight, "Would you like to find out why?"

His voice was trapped in his throat, "I'm dying."

He would never find out why.

Yet, Voldemort pressed on as if Harry had said nothing at all, "What the Muggles have done to you is unforgivable." He doesn't sound angry, just mildly unimpressed, "Magical blood is a precious commodity… Our people are few and spread out to widely. The Muggles and the precious Light encourage the gentry to generate wild elitist ideals, ideals that have done little to endear all of wizarding kind to the real cause."

Harry took a shuddering breath, trying to understand, willing himself to understand.

"You see, Mr. Potter, brood like Albus, they praise and worship Muggles while alienating the wizards. Then, the wizards become frustrated. They feel shunned. It's easy to… feed on the fears of those who feel forgotten. It's easy to manipulate a people looking for a savior. Albus," Voldemort whispered, head tilted toward the endless twisting skies of smudged grays and shapes, "fed on me as well. When I needed someone to… save me."

The wraith didn't have eyes but Harry imagined that, if it did, they would be closed, "I needed a protector, a guide. Albus attempted to provide that but when I grew too smart, too powerful, he tossed me aside and I had to save myself."

The trembling lower jaw suddenly snapped shut as thin lips spread into a grin far too wide to look anything other than horrifying. "You see, Albus didn't like that he couldn't control me. That he couldn't… do whatever he pleased and make me think whatever he wanted." He gave a shrug, an odd sort of action to watch considering Voldemort's current form, "We aren't that different. Albus and I. But his understanding of magic and what is best for our world has been twisted by naivety and greed."

"And you are different?" Harry blurted out, needing somewhere to direct his exhausted anger, "Don't you want to… to kill them? To hurt others? Like-"

"Wild tales weaved by Albus to turn the public against more open-minded thoughts of progression. You see, the gentry don't enjoy the idea of being forgotten. Pure-bloods are an interesting lot but satisfied when well-fed power. They need guidance and I have provided. Mr. Potter, I believe I made a mistake before my demise. I believe that death has opened my mind to new possibilities when my mad dash to do more than Albus had struck me blind."

Slowly Voldemort extended his hand, clicking long nails against the skeletal flesh of His wrist, "I could teach you too, Mr. Potter. I could open your mind to wonders you never dreamed possible. I could save you from this, from them, from mediocrity. I could guide you in a fashion Albus cannot provide and then, once you've matured, you too could… save yourself."

Harry couldn't slow his breathing. He could feel some great thing widening within him, a chasm of childish yearning that filled his head with miraculous ideals and a sudden thought that screeched, wildly, across his mentality. I don't want to die.

I don't want to die here. In the cupboard. Alone.

I don't want to be afraid anymore, ruined and trapped.

He ground his teeth together and found that he could move again. He could run, couldn't he? He could embrace death and eternity and never have to deal with the burden of being the Chosen One ever again. He could turn his back on the entirety of humanity and allow Voldemort and the Headmaster both to do whatever they pleased. After all, it wasn't his fault that he was in this mess, standing before the literal serpent of temptation.

And yet…

And yet…

"This is entirely your choice, Mr. Potter, and while the circumstances are less than ideal there is a great many things we could do. Together."

"My friends," Harry croaked, eyes closed as he balled his hands into fists, "I can't… they."

"Know nothing." Voldemort whispered, a soothing and gentle presence despite the constant pound of His power, "They are but children lacking true understanding. There are greater allies to be made. Greater learnings to digest."

Harry shook his head, physically pained by indecision-

"I-"

"Do you know how else I managed to get here?" Voldemort suddenly said, "I can feel it… a piece of myself, deep within you."

His eyes snapped open, his lips flopped-open and closed, open and closed-his tongue glued to the roof of his mouth.

"Oh… did Albus not tell you? I'm not sure how exactly but-"

Voldemort was jerked, pulled by the strength and power of Harry's grip as he reached out with a viciousness he hadn't felt before. The sound of his flesh slapping into Voldemort's own was deafening, and the metaphysical space around them rippled at the collision of magic. Harry had long since stopped expecting the wraith to screech in pain-after all, nothing about this situation was like the one he experienced with the stone-and something in him had wanted to… wanted to know if he could feel his sudden conviction. His rage. His absolute fury at being left in the dark when all his life he'd had to thrive in it.

He'd deal with the consequences later. They would understand. If not today, then… then someday.

But he refused to be abused any longer, that was a concept he could definitely grasp.

"It hurts," He rasped, his voice rolling like gravel, "It always hurts."

Voldemort was silent, his fingers twitching, waiting to curl around his small and dainty grip among such a giant hand.

"I'm sick and tired of hurting," Harry continued, his chest wheezing, as the wild thing within him made his hair blow in the breeze he could finally feel. "I won't die for this."

For him.

"B-but," Courage swelled in his chest, making his fury righteous, "But for you-!"

He had to breath past the loathing, past the idea that his Headmaster had allowed something like this to live within him without any knowledge. That someone, someone had to know he was left on the doorstep of cruelty and had lived such madness for eleven long years. He is not ignorant, not completely, but he is stunted and he knows… he knows that in order to grow, he'd need to do more. That he'd have to be more than just the Chosen One.

He could no longer afford to adhere to other ideals of justice. He could no longer afford to follow half-formed notions. He must know everything. Everything there was to be offered about his world, so that he was no longer the weak one, the vulnerable one, the beaten one. He needed to evaluate a greater meaning and then spread such meaning like gospel.

For even a child can desire to be worshipped.

Words bubbled out of his mouth, forced from his throat as if he were but an instrument of his own crafted chaos. He could taste copper-his dripping blood, now red and vibrant-upon his tongue. Something miraculous happened around him, something extraordinary, and for once, for once, he would not be punished. Heat flowed around him, warped and visible while the world seemed to bend and collapse on itself until there was only Harry and his equal. No.. not his equal, not really, not yet.

"I will follow you to hell and back. I will do whatever you ask and your enemies shall be mine."

The laughter that flowed around them, garbed and crazed, came from more than just one source. The towering cyclone of grays above them curled and became brilliance, too many colors, far far too many colors, for Harry to properly process. Harry's scar blazed with agony, a living and breathing entity that felt as if it were carving deeply across his skull, deeper than muscle and flesh. Voldemort came impossibly close, His grip powerful as needle like nails pierced his flesh, curled so tightly about his much smaller hand. Harry wasn't able to see his own blood drip down between them. He wasn't able to see the intricate swirls and spirals that formed beneath his feet and began to crawl across the ground he stood on. All he could see was Voldemort and the red gleam that burst to light as eyes became glowing orbs that consumed the bulk of His facial features. Closer and closer and closer still, until Harry's entire vision was that snapping hissing red.

But there was a voice among the storm, soft and amused… interested-

"So mote it be."

And then, they were gone.