Title: Ringu no Aku

Rating: M

Warnings: Character death, morbidity, lewdness,mucho slash later on, things as described by my classmates as “Katieish”

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and events created and owned by Joanne Kathleen Rowling. I do not (and never will) make any money from writing this, and mean no offense to anyone. So, in short, I own nothing.

Summary: Cry all you want; he will never be the boy you remembered, not now, not ever. You forget, do you not? How foolish. Lord Voldemort will never sleep; he will never stop.

A/N - I’m responding to a challenge issued by Maddevillechilde which, simply put since I’m too lazy to write the whole thing out, sorry, states: “ Harry is a Horcrux. He destroys the others, including the bit in our favorite Dark Lord, but the part of Voldemort inside of him takes over and he turns into…you guessed it…Voldemort!” So, to those of you who are totally against Horcrux!Harry, or evilness taking over and such, well, TOUGH! Enjoy my, as Mrs. Saacks’ reading class would describe it as since I’m the morbidest of the group, “Katieish” story of death, evil, and possibly numerous orgies.

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The sky was painted scarlet.

No birds chirped joyfully, no students sat around the great black lake. Really, there weren’t any students left at Hogwarts anymore. Not now, anyways. Many stayed with their families, hoping to find protection amongst the people who feared as much as they did, praying for some sort of hope that lingered within the sobbing eyes of their mothers, or the cold, hardened eyes of their fathers. There was no hope for them, though. In the end, they were all killed. Cowardice, it seemed, was not acceptable to the Dark Lord and his followers. And what of the fate of the few students who stayed behind? The poor wretches, the children who showed so much promise, were killed in the most brutal ways. At least, all those whose blood was impure. The members of Slytherin house, and any other purebloods who were not blood-traitors, were given a choice: follow the Dark Lord or die. There were many additions to the Death Eater’s ranks that day.

For these reasons, these poor children and their families, the people whom the Order could not help, even for Draco Malfoy, who, in all of his confusion about the headmaster’s words to him, to the offer of help he could have accepted for his family, bluntly refused the Dark Lord and found out exactly how much damage a simple incantation could inflict upon a human’s body, for everyone who had perished because of Lord Voldemort’s obsession, Harry Potter stood, chest heaving, blood smeared across his robes, facing the Dark Lord for what he hoped would be the last time.

Brother wands would not work against each other, that was true. In Harry’s hand rested the sword of Godric Gryffindor. It had helped him years ago to defend himself from Riddle and the monstrous basilisk, maybe it could help him again. Maybe. That word was always a stretch. It was never a certainty, not even a guarantee. It’s just a chance, a chance Harry was willing to take, if it meant the whole wizarding world, and Muggle world even, could survive. Voldemort stood across from him, robes also soaked in blood, a dark hood pulled up so that only his glowing red eyes could be seen. Grinning cruelly, he gripped his blade, born of snake’s fangs and shadows, and glared at his opponent, the Boy-Who-Lived, waiting for which “courageous, Gryffindor-esque act of glory” he would pull next. But he did nothing. Voldemort smirked.

“Has the great and mighty hero of Gryffindor no more amazing tricks up his sleeve?” he sneered, watching the boy. “No more phoenix to heal you, no love to spare you? I knew it,” the Dark Lord caressed the dark blade in his hand. “Without the fool Dumbledore, you are nothing but a frightened little boy.”

“Shut up!” Harry hollered. “Don’t you dare talk about Dumbledore like that!”

Voldemort disappeared, only to reappear behind his supposed downfall, sword pressed against the boy’s face. “Aw, have I struck a nerve, Potter? You don’t like it when the big bad Dark Lord talks about your precious headmaster? Do not fret, boy, you’ll be with him soon enough.” He dragged the tip along Harry’s cheek, blood flowing freely along the child’s pale skin. Harry couldn’t struggle; if he did, he’d be dead, the tip would surely puncture his skull. Then, something hot and wet, a forked tongue, a snake’s tongue, grazed the bleeding cut as Voldemort licked away the scarlet liquid. “Such impurity flowing through such a pure little child.”

“Your blood is no better, you sick bugger!” Harry spat back.

“So willing, are we?” Voldemort hissed, lewdly thrusting into Harry’s lower back, lowering his dark sword. “Perhaps I’ll grant your wish before I drench the dirt with your blood.”

Harry twisted out of Voldemort’s hold, slashing his blade across the older man’s chest, a bloody gash forming over snow-white skin. “Never, you twisted, sorry excuse for a wizard!” The Gryffindor seventh year held his sword at the ready, watching the blood flow freely from his enemy’s chest. Voldemort laughed cruelly, his hand drenched in his own blood.

“You think that will stop me? Think again!” He lunged at the Boy-Who-Lived, his shadow sword clashing with the sword of Godric Gryffindor. They dueled for what seemed like ages, each doing little more than scraping the other, until one foul swoop landed both swords far from their reach. It mattered not, for the sword fight evolved into a wrestling match in the bloodied, muddy earth. Harry found himself pinioned beneath Lord Voldemort, each covered in their own fair share of blood and dirt, Voldemort’s chest bloodied beyond belief.

“This is how I’ve always wanted to see you: bloodied and defeated. Now we’re just missing the piece where you’re begging for mercy and death!” Voldemort hissed, his red eyes glowing hungrily. He pressed against the boy, feeling the warmth beneath blood soaked clothes.

“And this is how I’ve always wanted to see you!” Harry shouted, kneeing the Dark Lord in the stomach, winding him, and escaping his vice-like grip. Voldemort slumped to the ground, his bleeding chest flowing openly again from the force. Grabbing his sword and wrenching it from the ground, Harry stood, towering over the devastated Dark Lord. “Dead.” Wielding the sword high over his head, Harry swung, decapitating the Dark Lord in one blow. He did not hear Voldemort’s final words, however:

“Memento mori.”

Remember that you must die.

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In the aftermath of the final battle, those few who were left, the Order and those they protected, the purebloods, and the few lucky Mudbloods and half-bloods that had hidden well, rejoiced in the death of the Dark Lord. The Death Eaters were sentenced to the cells of Azkaban, dementors were finally outlawed from the job position of Azkaban’s guards, and people were trying to rebuild.

Harry, Ron, Hermione, their families, and Order members stayed at Grimmauld Place. Things were finally looking up for once. The Golden Trio of Hogwarts decided to go back and truly finish their final year when the school reopened again, which was scheduled on September first as usual. They had about six months to go till school stated, so the trio of friends, along with all the members of the Weasley family, helped in any way they could to rebuild. Of course, they didn’t mind. Hogwarts was their home, they wouldn’t let it die.

Life was finally giving them a light at the end of the tunnel. Voldemort was dead. Everything was going great. That is, until one morning, Mr. Harry James Potter awoke to find a sharp pain in his scar.

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A/N - If I type rebuild ONE more time, I should just get a job at the Times Picayune of New Orleans! Rebuild. Rebuild. Rebuild. I know I haven’t written in a while, but I finally moved back to New Orleans. So yay. Now, to the dunking booth! Read and review, or else the sharks will eat me alive! -Sadademort