Disclaimer: The characters and the world around them belong to JR. I don't earn money with this.

Summary: Voldemort in his desire for power cases something unexpected to happen in the bond with him and Harry that makes them both dance on a thin grey line. Will Voldemort become lighter and Harry darker or does another one have the power to draw the other over? What about when Harry realises he is dragging his nemesis around in the most unsuited times and when Voldemort gets a taste of what the power in Harry is.


From The Depths Of Evil

Ch.1 The Potion

The man eyed the vial with interest. The blue liquid looked so seemingly innocent in its container on the wooden table but that was just the surface. The allurement of power was nearly irresistible.

He had done so much to reach where he was today and not all those things that had brought him power had been easy. Nothing worthwhile reaching for ever was. Still, this time he had to consider the risks very carefully. He had other ways, this wasn't the only one.

The potion was left on the table for a day, then for another and another. It was always there, calling him. It had the power to do so. The potion was a gift, he should use it. He would gain power unimaginable, he would finally rule over the world, he would have everything he worked so hard for, had given up so much for.

In the end, the risks didn't matter. He might loose his life. None of the changes he had made to himself had the power even close to the potion. If he failed, he would be ripped apart, starting from his soul. However, not even the threat of such pain changed his mind. He was a true Slytherin after all and the power was his quest.

That night the moon was full and he sat on a chair in front of the table. He had his wand, the potion and an old book. He did hesitate, he wasn't a fool. However, either he would use this himself or destroy it so that no one else could have it.

It was disgusting how his hand trembled a bit when he reached for the vial. The last thing he would see in this world would be blue swirls.

He drew a deep breath and uncorked the potion. If he would take another breath now, he would fell on the floor dead as a stone. So potent was the thing. Now, without any visible hesitation, he brought the vial to his lips and drank it. The world exploded.

Hundred of miles away from that place, Harry Potter was screaming. The pain he was in came second only to the cruciatus curse he had once suffered from Voldemort. He couldn't breath and the world wasn't there anymore. He couldn't breath.

Harry clawed but the pain didn't allow him much thought. No sound came from him anymore as the air was squeezed out of him.

Too gradually the world returned and he heard others screaming. His aunt, his cousin and then his uncle. But uncle Vernon wasn't screaming, he was yelling and angrily at that. That was when Harry realised that he was been strangled by his mad looking uncle.

"Shut up! SHUT UP! I've had enough of your noise. Even the neighbours heard that," the beefy man was all red and squeezed his throat even harder.

Harry tried to pry the hands away. Black spots were dancing in his eyes.

"Vernon! VERNON STOP! YOU'LL KILL HIM!" Aunt Petunia yelled.

"Yeah, Dad. Stop it! How would you explain that to our neighbours or to those f-freaks!" Harry's cousin joined his mother.

Slowly Harry felt the hesitation in the hands around his throat and then they released him as if he was something extremely disgusting. He coughed and took several long breaths. It hurt and his throat wheezed threateningly as if hesitating whether it should work at all.

"Don't you EVER make a sound anymore! Is that understood, boy?" his uncle spat at him before he turned and left the room. Muffled voices carried through the door.

"Darling, are you alright? You know you shouldn't get excited. The doctor told you so. Nothing stressful," his aunt was saying with a worry that had never been directed to Harry.

"Mu...um," his cousin whined as usual, "at least Dad silenced him. I couldn't have taken that screaming for a second longer."

"Why can't we just throw him out, Petunia dearest? ..." the rest of his uncle's voice vanished and only the stairs creaked under his family when they headed downstairs, leaving Harry to his own help.

Harry lied back on his bed tiredly, only concentrating on getting some air into his battered lungs. Fearfully he touched his throat and even that slight touch made him cough again. It felt like his lungs were torn from him. Harry looked at his pillow, it was stained with blood. That made him scared.

Carefully he touched his lips and then looked his hand. There were only few drops, not enough to stain the pillow as it was. Then something warm dropped pass his eyes and on his cheeks. Harry raised his hand on this temple and felt the wetness. His scar was bleeding.

Harry took the already stained pillowcase and pushed it against his forehead tightly. He didn't dare to go downstairs and fetch anything from the medicine cabinet. His aunt would have his head or what was left of it. Maybe he would dare to sneak to the bathroom a little later. He would just wait for a while.

Harry felt extremely sleepy. That his scar was open meant only one thing but he was too tired to worry about Voldemort right now. Anyway, the evil clown wasn't attacking as his scar wasn't in pain anymore. He would think about all this when he would wake up. Breathing still hurt.

The man was also on the floor, nearly unconscious. He heard strange voices, angry voices and strangers were never a good thing but for the life of him, he couldn't get up. Nevertheless, he was alive which meant - that the potion must've worked. A thrilling sensation filled his chest that he would describe as giddy if he had emotions. He didn't though.

The voices went away and he relaxed against the floor, thinking. Who was there and where was he? The floor under him was board not stone like in his rooms. He didn't think the voices belonged to any of his servants. Had someone done the impossible and caught him while he was unable to defend himself?

After a while, he tried to get up. His legs were wobbly and the world rocked but if anything, he was determinant. The power waited him.

To say that he was somewhat surprised to see his surroundings was an understatement but his expression didn't reveal anything about that. The room was disgustingly small and even worse, it was muggle. He reached for his wand, intending to destroy the room, the house and the inhabitants and then return to his manor but there was this minor flaw in his plan. He didn't have his wand.

He looked around and saw a familiar switch on the wall. He would find someone who was responsible for him ending up in here and then he would dispose of that person, slowly. He tried to turn the switch but his hand went straight through it. Like a ghost.

His heartbeat sped up a bit. What was happening? What had happened? Had the potion actually killed him? Where was he haunting?

An eternity in a muggle house would be hell. Not the place he had expected to end in. However, he knew not to be hasty. He didn't know for sure and what was the use of speculating then?

He looked at the room once more. It was disgustingly small, nearly as small as his own room had once been. It had to be a storage room. There were boxes around and the door was probably locked.

Then his eyes wondered on the desk and he noticed books there. The chair looked as if someone had sat there a moment ago. There was also a bed in the room and despite how awful and uncomfortable it looked, someone was sleeping in it. Someone actually lived in this repulsing room.

He took the steps to the bed though his last one was slow, as in a dream. The figure on the bed was - familiar. Anger flamed in him. Disgust and hatred bubbled to the surface.

"HARRY POTTER!" He yelled in blind fury and lunged at the boy. Someone already had done some damage but the manifestation of the resistance against him was still breathing and he would correct that right away.

In the original muggle way, he started to strangle the boy but halted back as his hands went through the pale throat. He tried to search something sharp with what to rip the tempting throat open but found nothing. He tried to grab a chair to smash it on him, he tried to lift a pillow to suffocate the insolent whelp but every single time his hands just went through everything.

Frustrated and immensely angry, he finally stopped. So, he was a ghost and doomed to haunt the dirty brat forever but he would think of something. Someway to deliver the utmost excruciating pain on the impertinent boy. That was when he looked at his own useless hands and nearly staggered back.

His hands looked different. He had - skin. His hands looked young. He looked at his legs and they were the same. He took no more than momentarily pleasure about that fact. He had sacrificed his looks once for a good reason, to get more power and now he felt weak in his more human form and the fact was that he was nearly powerless.

The night crawled on and the Dark Lord sat on the floor and stared at the sleeping boy on the bed. The hatred burned deep in him and there was even a moment when he would have given a lot of his power for just be able to use his hands for a few seconds. In time, his hatred didn't calm down but cold clarity came to him.

He had tried to kill the boy and that didn't work, so now he tested the boundaries of his new existence. The doors were no problem to him and he got as far as to the top of the stairs when something yanked him back. Like an invisible wall was there in front of him or more like a chain to the anchor that was Potter. To say that he didn't like the restrictions placed on him was an understatement if ever.

He wandered in the area he could. Looked at the disgusting muggles the boy was living with and absentmindedly tried to kill them too. It was a disappointment again. All other walls were like air to him except the outer one. He couldn't even go outside. He had been a half spirit before but this was so much worse.

None of the strong wards was alerted though as the old, fumbling fool wasn't there to protect his precious golden boy yet. There had to be a way for him to get out of there but try as he might, he didn't succeed.

The dawn came and he watched Harry Potter to wake up. It nearly brought him physical pain when he couldn't curse the boy to oblivion. At least the irritating child seemed to be in pain. The boy's whole throat seemed bruised and his breathing hard and though he fantasized that he had actually caused some damage last night, grudgingly he had to give the honour to someone else.

He looked Harry Potter to get up, get dressed and leave for breakfast. He was sure he was getting a rash for being around the boy for so long, not to mention in such a repulsive place.

He heard the boy to head downstairs and then he was unceremoniously dragged after him when the limit of how far he could be came across. That was also when everything became very bright and the place faded around him.

The next thing he knew was when he was back in the familiar dark and felt his own cold stone floor under him. He was back.