Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or bleach in any way, though I would be interested in renting a few characters, Fleur, Daphne, Orihime and Yoruichi to begin with.

Hey everyone, like I promised, the longer than normal prologue for my HP/Bleach crossover!

Harry Potter launched himself to the side, a bright flash of light shooting through the space he had been in less than a second before. His eyes narrowed, he focused on his opponent, the dreaded Lord Voldemort. Dressed in regal robes that were so black they seemed to absorb light, his eyes a burning red and his hairless skin a paper white, the man formerly known as Tom Riddle cut an imposing figure as he threw spell after spell at the young 19 – year - old.

Harry once again was forced to dodge, his wand held in front of him to defend against any curses that would come at him in his moment of movement. Ropes flew at him, propelled with magical force, flying at speeds no ordinary human could match. But Harry was not an ordinary human. His wand flew into the air, a spell already on his lips.

"Incendio!" The ropes burned as they continued to fly, turning to ash before they reached the crouched figure of the Boy – Who - Lived. "Reducto!" He cried, his wand thrusting forward like a sword, a jet of red coloured light flying forward.

Voldemort almost lazily flicked his wand towards the speeding jet of light, and suddenly its trajectory changed, bouncing back towards its original caster. Harrys' momentary shock was all that was needed for the destructive light to make contact with his chest. He was blasted back, the skin of his chest tearing, his ribs snapping under the force of the demolition spell.

Voldemort strode forward, unhurried, obviously fearing nothing from the semi - emaciated, prone form lying before him, rivulets of blood cascading down his now revealed side, his skin torn and bones snapped. There was a malicious smirk upon his face, while a sadistic glee shone in his eyes.

Harry closed his eyes in pain and resignation. He'd lost. He should have known this would happen. He was only a young man, not even out of his teens, and only a partially completed education, a half - hearted one at that, whereas Voldemort had decades of searching for ways to become more powerful, decades of expanding his knowledge and strength. This result was inevitable.

Voldemort stopped walking, barely a foot away from Harrys' more damaged right side, his crimson eyes glittering with madness as they looked down upon his vulnerable form.

"Well now Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived. How do you fell, young Harry?" He said in a transparent warm tone. "Do you feel the pain now, Harry? Do you feel the agony of, not only your wounds, excruciating as I am sure they are, but of your friends as they fight… and die, at the hands of my followers. Do you feel it Harry?" His voice was soft, akin to the hissing of a snake, his vermillion eyes boring into Harrys' own emerald pair. One set bearing twisted glee and madness, the other pain, hatred and resignation.

"Do not worry, young Harry. Soon, there will be…no…pain! Soon, you shall be with your parents, and your blood traitor mutt of a godfather, and your friends shall follow shortly after!" The Dark Lord cackled, his high, cold voiced tinged with insanity filling the room that they were occupying in the Riddle House.

Harry tried to move, but his muscles refused to obey him, his body wracked with spasms of pain. He couldn't do anything. He felt hopeless. Is this how it all ends? He thought desperately. Is this it? He struggled to turn his head to look up at his mortal enemy, still gloating and cackling insanely. No, he thought firmly, I will not let it end this way. I…will…kill…him…

Harry reached deep into his body, pulling every last dreg of magic to the forefront, his wand, still in his hand, began glowing, brighter and brighter, a deep green, tinged with black. Voldemort stopped his gloating, recognising a threat. He began to move his wand toward Harry, intent on killing him before he finished whatever it was he was doing. But he was too late.

With a wordless bellow of rage, Harry used the last of his strength to lift his arm, still wracked with pain, and directed his wand in Voldemorts general area, and released.

A wave of magic, green tinted black, roared through the room, a viridian tsunami bathing the room in deathly, destructive light. Voldemort screamed for an instant, before his body was vaporized, not even his soul, what was left of it, was untouched, the magic, fuelled by the intent of destroying him, obliterating that as well. And as Harry slipped into death's embrace himself, his injuries along with his use of life-draining magic taking their toll on him, he smiled, a feeling of triumph arising within him.

Harrys' eyes snapped open. He looked around, finding himself in the same room he had just died in. But, if he had died, how was he…

His eyes then caught the grisly sight of his mutilated body lying on the floor a few feet away. His eyes widened. He looked terrible. His injuries were clear as day, blood covering his body and most of the floor around him. His rib cage was easily visible, cracked and broken like glass, and if one were to look closely they would see his stopped heart. His skin, pale to begin with, was now bone white, which made the blood even more noticeable.

Harry continued to look around, catching sight of the chain on his chest, which freaked him out, before remembering that his friends were still fighting. He had to get out there.

He dashed out the splintered door, rushing to his friends. He finally found them, and his heart fell. They were all bound, unconscious, as the Death Eaters stood and healed themselves.

"There's no more sounds coming from upstairs. Think they're done?" Greyback, the werewolf, asked in his gruff voice.

"We should check." Came Bellatrix's grating tones.

One by one they stood, tenderly trotting around the debris, and crept up the stairs towards where his body lay.

Harry was tempted to follow them, but couldn't move, as he stood there, staring at his defeated friends. Was this truly how it was going to end? Voldemort dead, but the Light defeated anyway? The victory truly felt… Hollow.

He heard a shriek upstairs, and knew that they had found his body, and the devastation of the room around it, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He felt… empty.

The Death Eaters rushed back to the ground floor, anger in their eyes. They came into the room his friends were in, his disfigured corpse hanging over Greybacks' shoulder. Each of the other Death Eaters picked up the unconscious forms of his friends, before apparating out of there, Harry being pulled along for the ride.

Months passed. The Death Eaters had immediately gone to Diagon Alley, blasting bangs into the air to get everyone's attention. They proudly displayed the fallen Boy-Who=-Lived on a floating wooden cross. For irony, they had said. The other, still living, teens chained like slaves behind them. The public was demoralized, their only hope dead. The Death Eaters had lied, saying that Voldemort still lived, but would continue to run things as he had for the last three years, from the shadows. The public believed them. He had been doing so for three years, why stop now?

Harry watched helplessly as the world was subjugated around him. The muggleborn were tortured freely now, the purebloods living like kings. And as time went on, he felt himself grow emptier and emptier, until finally, his emotions were almost completely gone.

The chain on his chest, which he had stopped caring about, had continuously gown shorter, once reaching beyond his sight, now ending only a few feet away. He idly wondered what would happen when it was all gone.

Then he stopped caring.

His now cold green eyes watched apathetically as those who were once his friends were lead on to an execution stage. All five of them, Hermione, Ron, Neville, Ginny and Luna showed signs of torture, but their faces showed no pain, no fear.

A squad of six people all walked up in front of them, as the five members of the former DA were forced to line up one by one, before being marched off to stand in front of the six executioners. Harry curiously recalled the firing squads from his muggle classes when he was a child. One by one they marched to their death, and as the final one, Ginny fell to the deadly volley of green curses, Harry felt his heart die.

Pain overcame him, tiny mouths appearing on the end of the chain, devouring it at a fast rate. He reached his hands up to his chest, trying to halt the pain, before the mouths reached the length of metals end and disappeared.

Harry stood, panting, wondering what had happened, before a disgusting feeling, as if he were about to throw up, welled up in his throat. He opened his mouth to scream, but a thick white liquid shot out of his lips instead, covering his face, and then his body.

Harry stopped screaming, falling to the ground as he felt like he had no energy. And he was so hungry.

On instincts he didn't know he had, he raised his hand up and waved it through the air, opening a black rip in the air, and leaped through it.

It had been decades. The white, batlike being could no longer recall his original name, or the names of the faces he blurrily remembered. It didn't matter. He didn't need a name, and neither did the prey. He devoured everything in his path, both human soul and hollow alike.

He was alone. All around him the beings were coloured black, yet he was purest white. Why? Why was he so different?

More decades passed. He had changed shape, once being formed similarly to a large bat; he was now a gigantic cloaked being, the size of a castle, though still that blasted white. He had seen others of his kind, and they were all black. Why wasn't he?

His mind was also filled with the voices. Voices of those he had eaten, those he had used to sate the everlasting hunger. Even now he hunted, never stopping in his endless quest for prey.

Centuries now. He had changed again, becoming more similar to his original form, that of a giant white bat. His mind was his own now, no more whispers or cries or screams. He felt empty, yet still consumed by that perpetual hunger. He felt it stirring up again. He needed to hunt.

He could recall nothing of the life before this one, nothing of the red-haired friend he used to have, or the blonde enemy. Nothing of the bushy-haired who had helped him so much, or his snakelike killer. And even if he did, he wouldn't have cared.

Though he had taken a name. It was the name of a man he had eaten while trying to stave off the hunger, a German name, he thought, though he didn't particularly care, nor did he know why he bothered to think of it. He just liked the name.

Ulquiorra Cifer was empty.

A millennium had passed since entering this barren wasteland known as Hueco Mundo. Ulquiorra had changed for what he somehow knew to be the final time. As always, he resembled a large bat, but now there was a more humanoid appearance to him, and his eyes glowed an iridescent green. His large wings spread from his back, resting against his tree.

He had spent many years wandering the moon-bathed desert, moving from place to place with no destination in mind. With his final change into Vasto Lorde, the hunger rarely came any more, only once every few human months. He had wandered into this particular tree many years ago, the exact number he did not care to remember, and he had been pleased with its bleached white colour and solidarity. White, he had decided long ago, was a fine colour.

He shifted as he felt someone enter his territory. Very few dared to enter the land claimed by a Vasto Lorde, and whoever had decided to do so was either brave or foolish. More than likely the latter, he thought.

As he turned to face the new arrival, he saw a meek looking man with unkempt brown hair and bookish glasses on his narrow face, a genial smile on his lips. He was of average build, and wore the black shikausho uniform of the shinigami.

A little far from home, shinigami. He mused to himself.

"Hello," The shinigami called out, raising a hand in greeting, "Are you the Vasto Lorde known as 'The Black Winged Death'?"

"And if I am?" Ulquiorra's deep voice, slightly gruff from disuse and muffled by the helmet that covered his face, rang around the clearing.

"Then I might have an offer for you. My name is Sosuke Aizen."

AN- Now, I won't be doing much on this story for a while, but that's because I still have some decisions to make, such as if I'll include Naruto into this or not. If you're confused, read the AN at the bottom of A Ravens Tale to catch up. Anyway, so after my Itachi pairing poll, I'll be putting up another few to decide the direction I'll be taking a few of my stories in. Hope you enjoyed,