Disclaimer: I don't own the characters of Harry Potter or Bleach ; they belong to their respective owners– I only own the plot and story.
Summary: Harry is chucked in Azkaban. Who will help him? When will be his turn to be selfish? It's shounen – ai, meaning boy/boy love. Don't like, don't read!
Shout Out: This is an oneshot, although there is possibility of it being continued, if I would be bitten by that particular bug. Anyway, until that time comes, it would be classified under Scrapbook Jewels, where I would stack any crossovers with Harry Potter, but they wouldn't be all with pairings. I will post warnings if there would be pairing, and what kind – slash, hetero and pairing. If you disregard the warnings, don't come crying to me.
"It is not because the truth is too difficult to see that we make mistakes... we make mistakes because the easiest and most comfortable course for us is to seek insight where it accords with our emotions - especially selfish ones."
Dull green eyes stared into pained jade ones.
"And why should I call upon you?" The young male voice asked the grief – stricken silhouette on the cold, damp ground. "Last I recall you said I was never your Master.'' Jade orbs widened.
"But – But -If you don't, you will – "the whispery voice rose up, hurried, frantic –
The young man shook his head sardonically. "Do you see me as someone who would fear death?" the silhouette on the ground was wracked with choked sobs.
"But you have so much – to live for!" He pleaded with his Master. "Let me help you – "
Green eyes blinked slowly. "I have nothing to live, and everything to die for. Besides, why should I trust you, only to be betrayed again?" his voice was calm – too calm, in fact. And it hurt the crumpled form on the ground to hear it, to know he was the reason for this once strong, honourable man, to be an empty husk of a person he was before.
He stood up. "Go. Find some other wielder – "
His thin wrist was caught in inhumanly strong grip, an elegant hand with long fingernails, and silvery white in a dull light.
"No. No, I won't. I won't let you!" the man on the ground looked up at him, desperate jade eyes in the glaring contrast with dark purple eye shadow, shining with nearly animalistic desperation, small, silvery tracks of tears barely visible on pale, elegant-looking face. "I was a fool. A miserable fool to do – that to you. Just – please..."
His voice was broken with grief. The slender hand – slender wrist in his grip was so frail, so unlike that of his Master –
Not grown up, strong and corded with fine muscles, honed from training, but frail, brittle and small, like those of a bird. The man before was now reduced to a malnourished teen, once strong body was now delicate as a finest porcelain, liable to break at the slightest movement on his part.
Once proud, strong face was diminished into sickly pale, gaunt features with blackish purple bags under tired eyes, indicating that he hadn't gotten any good sleep in a long time.
He was clothed in bare rags, with scruffy old cloak thrown haphazardly over his shoulders. He looked every inch of a beaten, defeated spirit who had no qualms about submitting to the eternal sleep that was Death.
Only his posture was as proud as ever, looking quite out of place on the forsaken being which was in such miserable state as he was.
The blood trickled slowly from the nicked cut on the wretched figure. And the white and purple cloaked man gulped at the sight.
"I – "He began lamely.
Jaded emerald eyes looked at the lamenting figure in front of him seriously.
He seemed to be well and truly sorry for what had he done.
He looked just as magnificent as he had on the day he had first met him.
Tall, regal-looking, clothed in white and purple ensemble, his skin pale as a moon, with serious face, purple eye shadow and those piercing jade eyes.
Messy chocolate brown strands of hair surrounded slender face with thin lips and straight nose, meshing slightly with the rich gray of furry collar.
And somehow... the picture of perfection was ruined with the heartbroken desperation of the man.
The blood trickled from the small wound his nails had nicked – really, the man's only imperfection was his set of infinitely sharp, twelve inches long pieces of weapons that were his nails.
He remembered only too well his fascination with the man's nails.
He remembered, only too well, his death at the hands of this man, the sharp nails gutting his stomach, the spike of pain and then dull agony when his innards were lying under him slick and pulsing with blood and then, the darkness falling upon his stunned mind and oblivion –
He remembered the taste of betrayal in his mouth, like ashes and blood and something bitter –
He remembered this man coming into his cell somehow, looking at him with sorrowful eyes, so unlike those hard, indifferent, cold jade orbs that were his last memory before oblivion –
Closing his eyes, he fought the urge to rip his wrist out of that delicate looking hand, the urge to scream and back away, and scream and scream and scream –
Scream until his throat was raw with fear and anger and fury and terror and oblivion –
Shaking his head from the mindless ponderings, he looked at the kneeling person in front of him.
He blinked; time was running out. His head hurt and soon, they would be here to take him, Light or Dark, he cared not.
They would come here, to reclaim and destroy the weapon they had forged with their mindless struggles. His head was, despite the throbbing pain, clear, and wryly, he wondered, if that was side effect of being so near death.
Slowly, he blinked.
Idiots, the lot of them.
Murderer. Betrayer. Filth. Freak. Freak. FREAK.
The litany echoed in his brain, strangely soothing for being composed of such hurtful words.
"Why won't you let me go?"
This time, he was honestly, curious.
"You know I am not the same, as I once was. So why come to me, when you could have a wielder already?" Green eyes were clouded with memories of violence and rare times he was... happy.
The spirit bowed his head. A trickle of blood slid down, from that fragile arm, down, to the silvery white skin and he was reminded of the time when his hands were soiled with more than this minute amount of blood.
When his pale skin was red and slick and warm with the liquid of life, his nostrils inhaling the bittersweet scent of iron and copper and something like death.
When those green eyes looked into his jade ones – so surprised, betrayed – dismayed with his... betrayal.
The memories nearly made him sick with their clarity. Even so long after committing this... sin, he was haunted by them – he was hounded by longing – when he had seen the Ryoka fight alongside his Zapankuto – it was the second most painful thing he had ever experienced.
The Ryoka was so stubborn, so wilful, and for a moment, Muramasa was tempted to offer himself, to be used once again –
What stopped him from doing that, anyway?
Was it Zangetsu, his hand on the Ryoka's shoulder, the sword and wielder one in the dance of death? Like he had been once before, with him...
He gulped. "I am aware that you have... changed. " A nervous lick of pale lips. "I changed, too." He fought the urge to lower his eyes. "But without you... there's only half of me. "
A disbelieving snort.
Jade eyes flashed with irritation. "Do you think I liked it?" he hissed out, his quiet voice even more whispery. "Do you think I liked being a fool for so long? Contrary to your belief, I am not infallible or omniscient. "He nearly snarled at the stunned youth. "You and I, we were tied together, for better or worse -" He yanked the slender body down, unmindful of the pained wince of the green – eyed man.
"– I was foolish once, to disregard the bond between us. "
Now, they were face to face, furious jade orbs staring into stunned green ones. "Somehow, we got a second chance, and I, for once, don't intend to waste it!"
A stunned silence.
Muramasa breathed harshly. It was satisfying to see his wielder so stunned, finally shaken out of his apathy. He would feel a pang of regret at the feeling of loss on his face, emerald eyes wide with dismay.
"I don't care who are you now," He spoke out again. "Be it Kuchiki Kouga, a noble of one of noble clans of Seireitei or Harry Potter, a wizard in Azkaban - I. Do. Not. Care." He growled out. "I don't care if you never call upon me - I will be with you. I will follow you, even if you don't want me to. But damn it, I DO care about you throwing your life away as if it were a worthless shinai!"
"Oh, NOW you care!" Harry spat out. "You - I was NEVER your Master. So don't ever presume to – "
His tirade was cut off as dry chapped lips descended on his snarling mouth.
He blinked, dumbfounded.
And then, he was lost –
'That bastard - !' Harry whimpered with the intensity of the kiss.
It was so, so wrong, and yet so right – like he had found a missing piece of his soul. Even as Kouga, he hadn't felt such overwhelming wholeness like he did just now.
Mouth mashed together, teeth clashed and tongues duelled with each other. It was infinitely better than his kisses with Cho or Ginny. It was perfection.
Finally, they parted, panting lightly. "You... fucking idiot." Harry managed to get out, as their foreheads touched, their breaths mingling together. "Damn it, why did you have to do that?"
An arrogant smirk made Harry bristle weakly at the idiotic, arrogant, selfish Zapankuto. "You know my name, Harry – Kouga, whatever you are called now. Use it."
"No!" Harry snapped out, peeved. "You've gone too far!"
The smirk widened. "Have I? You never were my Master, Harry." The smirk softened into a small smile. "But you were everything else."
Dumbfounded, the wizard blinked.
'Everything else?' The last two words echoed in his still fuzzy mind.
"W – What do you mean?" He managed to get out weakly.
"Everything else." Muramasa confirmed quietly. "My brother. My friend. My family. My lover. My partner. My light."
With each softly spoken word, Harry felt himself become more vulnerable, his resolve to die fading.
"Stupid," Harry managed to choke out, his eyes prickling with unshed tears. Before his inner eyes, there flashed his life – as Kouga, as Harry and Muramasa was starkly outlined, shining like the brightest star in the dark winter sky.
"That's me," Muramasa agreed softly. "What a pair are we, ne?"
Snorting, Harry punched him weakly on his chest, but didn't refute the question.
Closing his eyes, Harry sighed as he snuggled into the white and purple clad body, inhaling the scent of blood and dew, regret and hope – he didn't even know that regret and hope could be described in scents, but somehow, they were.
A part of him was disgusted with himself for so quickly giving into Muramasa – the same Muramasa who used and then betrayed him, killing him in the process.
That Slytherin part of him was currently screaming and clawing at the walls of his conscience to get the hell away from the man and never return.
But he was tired. Tired of being hurt, of having to take care of himself, of scraping the bare minimum allowed just to live, of being alone –
There were so many things that had broken him and he was too tired to piece himself back again.
He was beyond caring for his survival now. And for once, he would go with the flow, for once, he would forgive, not because he was told to forgive, but because of his own volition to do so.
He smiled, as he asked the question.
"Hey... Can I be selfish?"
/End – Owari/