Author's Note: This is the first story I've written that has steered away from the Harry Potter's book main plot line. While everything is as canon as I can make it to be, it does go on its own track. It's my own take on an evil!Harry story, starting at Malfoy Manor in DH but definitely trying to keep to Harry's character in the book as much as I can. I hope you enjoy this attempt and criticism and comments are much welcome.

Trigger Warning: There is non-consensual sex in this story. I'm really sorry, sincerely I am, I know it's a horrible thing to write about. I really encourage anyone who is triggered by sexual things to not read this story, it's not a nice at all. Furthermore, it has torture, dark/bordering on suicidal thoughts, blood, murder, and all those lovely things. Definitely not a light-hearted story.

Harry's scar was blinding him with pain. Dimly, he knew that they had moments, seconds before Voldemort was with them.

"Ron, catch – and GO!" he yelled, throwing one of the wands to him; then he bent down to tug Griphook out from under the chandelier. Hoisting the groaning goblin, who still clung to the sword, over one shoulder, Harry went to seize Dobby's hand to disapparate. Before he could, there was a jolting pain in his wrist, causing him to flinch back and miss Dobby's outstretched palm. Griphook slipped from his already weak grip and fell bodily on top of Dobby, and the whole jumbled group of people before him disappeared in a loud crack. Harry stared dumbly at where they had been before realising he had to escape too and he spun around on the spot.

Something flew past his ear and broke the tiles behind his head, which was enough to tell him he hadn't disapparated. Thinking much too slowly, he looked down at his arm and realised that a knife handle was sticking out from his wrist, with blood pouring down onto his palm where his wand should have been. The pain in his head was only intensifying and having no capacity to think of any other option, Harry turned and ran blindly from the room, hoping he was heading to some sort of escape. Back in the ballroom he heard shouts and cries of anger but he sprinted quickly, hoping he could outrun them before they got their hands on some wands.

The house was a maze and every corridor Harry ran through seemed to lead to a whole new section of the house. Hopes growing dimmer for a door, he tried to find a window he could jump from instead but couldn't find any of them either. Surely the house had been magicked to be endless and inescapable, as he had felt like he had been running for days – but the pain in his head, threatening to cleave it in half, was probably warping time. He kept getting flashes of Voldemort and with a haunting drop in his stomach, he saw the ballroom he had just vacated. Bellatrix was falling to her knees and pointing down the corridor that Harry had bolted through. Voldemort was on his way.

Harry tore open door after door, growing more desperate when each one opened to a seemingly eternal labyrinth. He could feel Voldemort getting closer and closer with every second. He opened a door and dashed through it before crashing head-first into a solid wall. This was the first room he'd encountered that didn't lead to another, so surely this had to be his escape! He turned wildly around looking for a door, a window, a cat flap, anything – but the walls were bare. This empty room with the barren walls was as pointless as a wizard without his wand. He got a flash of Voldemort's mind and – oh god, there he was, walking slowly down the hall towards an open door. The door he just opened.

Harry, now crying, felt along the walls hoping for a hidden door but found nothing. He could hear the swish of the cloak grow closer and he knew there was nothing more to be done. This was the end, he would die here in little dark, lonely room. He backed into the corner and sunk to his knees, burying his head in his hands. He had no strength to die upright, like a man – he could only hope Voldemort would be quick, not like the Dementors who liked to draw out their sentence and send their victims into dark despair before finishing them off. Harry remembered what he had heard when the Dementors encased him; the shouts of his father, the anger of Voldemort, the pleas from his mother…

His mother. His mother didn't die crouching in the corner of his nursery, hoping that Voldemort would finish her off quickly. She had died standing strong against hopelessness, fighting hard to give her only son a chance at life. If she could see him now, how her sacrifice had gotten him…

With that thought, Harry deftly stood up and faced the open door. He knew deep down this would be as pointless a final stand as his own parents, but he wouldn't die a coward. He had fought too long and too hard to let Voldemort take that last right from him. Absent-mindedly, he gripped the handle of the knife in his wrist and pulled it out, holding it front of him with as steady a hand as he could manage. He was bleeding heavily and if Voldemort didn't hurry up, he would die from blood loss soon. The blood from his wrist was dripping in time to the last seconds of his life. But - as he closed his eyes briefly - he saw Voldemort was already here.

Voldemort's form stepped into sight and through the doorway. He did not appear out of breath or even concerned at the fact that he had chased Harry throughout the manor. His face, snakelike as always, was a mask of detachment. The black robes he wore made almost no sound as he walked slowly across the floor towards Harry, red eyes locked onto green. Harry continued to hold the knife out, arm shaking visibly now, trying to disregard how ridiculous he felt - Voldemort's wand was held almost casually in the man's long fingers but he knew that his knife might as well be a freshly picked rose for all the power it held. Still - he was determined to die fighting, and this knife was all he had. Voldemort stopped a few steps away from Harry and regarded him in silence for what seemed like a lifetime.

Finally, he spoke.

"You are an insufferable little insect I cannot seem to squash," he spoke softly, with emotion absent from his high voice, "and I am tired of you. There is no one else to throw themselves in front of you, no one else to die because of your pathetic attempts to thwart me. It's time for you to die, Harry Potter, as you should have done seventeen years ago and as you always had coming to you."

Instead of raising his wand and shouting the last words he'd ever hear, as Harry had suspected he would do, Voldemort stepped up to Harry until he was towering over him. He never broke eye contact and Harry refused to do it either, even though the pain in his scar had reached a hysterical mass at this point. The knife was still held out but Voldemort didn't give it a second of his attention - like Harry thought, it was such an embarrassing weapon to wield that it was not even worth acknowledging.

"I'm going to see the moment you die. I'm going to see the light, finally, leave your eyes. I'm going to watch you as you die, alone, in this room. You - will - LOOK - AT - ME!"

The last words were screamed because Harry had finally reached breaking point and averted his eyes to the ground, closing them briefly in an attempt to stop the pain in his head. Knowing he would be dead soon and there would be no more pain couldn't stop him from at least trying to dull it. As his eyes closed, he was suddenly struck with a pain across his face as strong and as stinging as if he had been whipped. He gave a start in shock and in doing so, jerked his arms wildly in an attempt to protect his face. He felt the knife he held in his hand meet something solid as his back hit the wall behind him. Voldemort gave a shriek of rage and pain which caused Harry to open his eyes.

Somehow in his startled reaction, his knife had managed to slice Voldemort's hand open and blood was flowing as eagerly as the blood from his own wrist. Voldemort was staring wide-eyed at this wound and Harry wondered quickly if Voldemort had ever seen his own blood in combat - a part of him was even shocked that Voldemort had the ability to bleed. Perhaps there's only so much humanity you can give up in yourself. Suddenly, Voldemort's eyes flicked up to Harry's and he waved his wand violently. Harry's body was filled with an all-encompassing, but overly familiar, pain causing him to scream loudly, falling bodily to the floor and curling up in pain. The knife flew from his hand and clattered to the ground somewhere, but he hardly noticed as the cruciatus curse rendered him incapable of feeling anything but debilitating torture. He was helpless to stop the thought of the spider in Moody's classroom during his fourth year as it curled up in pain and then later killed by the killing curse – he was the spider this time and Voldemort was the sadistic teacher above him. Teaching him a lesson of pain for ever thinking he would defeat him and succeed. He was a tiny bug, waiting to be put out of his misery.

The pain was suddenly lifted and Harry pushed himself up into a sitting position, eyes streaming and his breathing ragged and violent. As the pain slowly disappeared from his aching body, he wiped his arm across his face and it came off covered in blood – the whipping feeling he felt before had left a long gash down his forehead, crossing his old lightning bolt scar. He was faint from the blood-loss, the running and the torture and most of all, from the fear. But – he had to fight this, because he knew these were his last moments as an irritating bug on this earth, so he once again raised his eyes to meet Voldemort's.

The man was standing there with his injured hand down by his side where the blood slowly trickled down to the floor, joining Harry's own symphony of drips. He had not attempted to heal the wound apparently and now stood there, breathing heavily, staring at Harry with an expression of utmost revulsion and demented rage.

"This has gone on much, much too long," he spoke quietly, his voice shaking with perhaps the tiniest of feeling, "but no longer."

He bent down to Harry with his wand outstretched and ready to be used at any moment and Harry could almost feel the boiling fury of power within it. The boy's heart was beating loudly now, loud enough to mask the sound of dripping blood and heavy breathing that filled the room. His eyes were falling deep, deep into the crimson tides of Voldemort's – knowing these were the last things he'd ever see, and he tried valiantly to think of his friends and his family, but they were overruled by the never-ending red that stared back at him. Voldemort's hands, disconcertingly soft, cupped his chin and tipped his head back in order to make their sight-line even more concrete. He let go, considered him for a moment, then put the wand under Harry's chin.

"Watch, Harry Potter," he whispered.

His hand then moved above Harry's scar and Harry knew what this meant – when Voldemort had touched his scar in the graveyard when he returned to life, he was filled with an agonising anguish. Voldemort intended this to be the last thing Harry felt. The blood continued to drip and so did the seconds.

Voldemort's hand touched Harry's scar, the blood from the knife wound meeting the blood from the spell. Blood from different men but sharing the same common ingredient of a mother's love and something else, something that the two did not know existed yet – the different, but same, blood met with a single touch.

And then suddenly -

Harry's mind went violently white and he thought that this was it, this was death, Voldemort had killed him after all this time and he was dying – but wait, this light was white not green, this was not what he expected then -

Images went flashing across his mind's eye in quick succession: Riddle's diary, Gaunt's ring, Slytherin's locket, Hufflepuff's cup, Ravenclaw's diadem, Nagini the snake, and then, absurdly, a lone baby crying in a crib.

There was a crippling pain in Harry's forehead, accompanied by an unexplainable warmth in his chest and he was thrust back into reality as violently as he had disappeared.

His eyes shot open. Voldemort was in the same position as he had been, but he was blinking rapidly and looked as thoroughly confused as Harry felt. He guessed they had shared the same vision, but he had no idea what this meant. Clearly it had been what all of Voldemort's horcruxes were (the snake had surprised him, and he had no idea what the baby meant) but why had they shown up in his mind then, and why had it done the same to Voldemort?

The wand under his chin was dug in deeper. "How dare you – how could you – who told you of them?" Voldemort was almost rendered incapable of speaking because of his ever-growing rage.

"Of what?" Harry answered, and the wand jabbed him hard.

"It had to be Dumbledore, that bastard. How could he - ! What have you been doing, you horrible creature? What - "

His last question was cut off as Voldemort attempted to grip Harry's injured wrist threateningly, only for the both of them to be greeted by the same visions as before.

Riddle's diary, Gaunt's ring, Slytherin's locket, Hufflepuff's cup, Ravenclaw's diadem, Nagini, baby crying in a crib.

"Stop doing that!" Voldemort cried, and could that be a trace of shock in his voice? "How are you able to use such magic on me? What is this – GAH!"

"I'm not doing anything, I swear!" Harry shrieked. "It's whenever you touch me, I can't control it! I don't know - "

"QUIET!" Voldemort reached out and slapped him across the face, almost being unable to control his desire to hurt Harry, but it only sent them once again on a trip to those visions.

Riddle's diary, Gaunt's ring, Slytherin's locket, Hufflepuff's cup, Ravenclaw's diadem, Nagini the snake, baby crying in a crib.


"I don't – I can't – I have no idea what's going on!"

"Then I will find out!" Voldemort yelled. "You bought yourself more time, Harry Potter, this is true. But you will regret it in time. And you will still be brought to death under my wand."

He raised his wand.

Harry's world went black.