Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Chapter I. Happy endings.

He stood, shivering under the harsh slaps of the cold rain that was particularly mean tonight, trying to wash away all the filth in the world it seemed, trying to make him bend down to the ground, submit to mother nature and inevitability of fate. Smiling viciously through his cluttering teeth he shook his head, as if there was no other option for the weather but to admit its defeat, and took another step towards the small house, rubbing the water away from his eyes. There was no time to waste, he needed to get rid of this small obstacle and carry on with his plans.

The light, coming from the windows of the first floor, fell in squared orange spots dramatically contrast against the chalk black of the asphalt underneath his bare feet. He could see no movement inside, it seemed as if the life itself had stopped, frozen in anticipation of what was to come. Circling his fingers tightly around the thin, wooden body of his wand he confidently walked forward, speculating on whether he should try and cancel the wards or ignore them completely, for he had no intention of spending more than a few minutes here. He crossed the invisible barrier, hissing slightly at the unpleasant sensation of his skin being burned by the protective magic, and in a few quick strides reached the front door just in time to blow it off its hinges and throw it at the man who was running to stop him.

James Potter fell back and hit his head on the step of the staircase, losing his wand and consciousness - he found it to be rather trite to kill a defenseless wizard, however, mercy seemed to be even more banal in this particular case. Pointing his wand at the pale face he sighed tiredly, "Avada Kedavra." The bright green light flashed, reflected by the glass of the spectacles that had fallen askew, and James Potter's chest rose for the last time. Having had stepped over his body he slowly went up the stairs, listening in to the deafening rumble of the thunder outside.

He often wondered what was the meaning of life, when it could have been given to and taken so easily from a human being? What was there beside the elementary existence, what was the essence of the desire to live, that dictated so many of the deeds he had performed during his life? He could never define death, it was one of the few mysteries he had no solution for, one of the few phenomenons he had a very hard time of accepting, the only source of fear, the only fear he had ever experienced. Fear called for insecurity, insecurity led to uncertainty, which in turn resulted in weakness... Weakness was what needed to be controlled and extirpated eventually. Control was the key to survival, which was the foundation of life, however mundane the notion might have seemed. Control over the lives of others was what gave him the comfort that he needed, the comfort that was in fact a twisted kind of assurance that his own life could never be taken from him, could never be affected by another.

Wasn't the power the meaning of his and everybody else's existence? Wasn't the power the fuel that made the world turn and change, develop and decay, improve and degrade in a vicious circle? Perhaps, the privilege to supervise this constant transformation was the meaning of his life? Perhaps, his power was what could break the usual order of it all and redesign it? Was he going to upset the already formed balance by taking one particular life tonight? The universe held many riddles for him to play and he exceeded at solving them, one by one, despite any possible limits, that were put on him by mother nature… but the matter of life and death had always been the cornerstone for him and the reason of his never ending anxiety. Tonight, however, he felt peaceful. Tonight he was going to trick his fate once again.

Lily Potter's pale skin took an unhealthy greenish hue under the electric light of an old, muggle lamp; she looked like a ghost and only her tears and harshly trembling hands reminded him that she was indeed of flesh and blood. He impassively watched the glowing tip of her wand being pointed at him - she wasn't going to fire, she couldn't. Fear had gripped her heart in a vice, her ever sacrificing nature took its toll on her rationality, and all she was capable of was pathetic crying and pleading for her son's life. For the life he intended to take tonight.

"Step aside, girl," he offered her reluctantly, "Step aside and you would not be harmed."

"Please!" She kept shaking her head, begging him, shielding the child with her thin, fragile body.

He saw how completely insane she looked at him, how the last echoes of sense and logic left her mind, bringing that particular dull, hollow expression into her once vibrating emerald eyes. How truly odd and boring the majority of people were, he mused, watching her. They always followed the very same predictable scenario over and over again, it was as ridiculous as it was horrifying. He had seen this look so many times, he had heard the very same words so often it all felt disgusting to him, left a sour aftertaste in his mouth, made his lips twist in disdain.

"Avada Kedavra." He dropped his hand down and sighed, looking at her now motionless form, that lay at his feet; the witch's auburn hair tickled on his bare skin. "You never listen, do you?"

Shaking his head he turned and moved towards the crib. Harry Potter sat on the cot inside it, watching him with wide, scared eyes, from which the fat tears ran slowly down his plump, rose cheeks. The boy was so small, looked defenseless and miserable - it was indeed hard to imagine that one day he could grow up into a man capable of defeating him. He drew his wand, pointing it at the child, whose lips trembled harshly but never let a whimper escape, and stopped again. He had never made a mistake before in his life - his long and fruitful reign was a concrete evidence of that. However, he knew that something hadn't been quite right lately, something rather unsettling found a place in his mind and kept nagging him from time to time, giving him migraines and terrible, uncontrollable mood swings. Doubt. He never doubted his powers and decisions he made, he had never doubted himself for that matter, but there was an undeniable uncertainty he had been experiencing recently.

He had never discovered the last part of the prophecy, that brought him so many sleepless nights and months of searching for Potters. Why had he decided that it was going to be the Potters' boy and not the Longbottoms'? Dumbledore could have easily fooled everyone by sending the wrong family into hiding. What were the last words of the prophecy, what was it that this boy was going to bring upon his authority in the future? Of what he was certain though, was the notion that right now, at this very moment, the child was harmless. Could he really rush into action without thoroughly considering all the possibilities and outcomes? He knew himself to be an impatient man and could foresee how dearly he would have to pay for his own weakness. Fear of death was his weakness, as was his mortality.

"You live today, Harry Potter," he said quietly and bent down to take a closer look at the boy. A ball of pale flesh, a mop of black hair and a pair of bright, emerald eyes - nothing more, even the child's magical core hadn't developed yet. If Harry Potter posed a threat to him, it couldn't be determined earlier than in few more years if not a decade. "However, I cannot let you fall into the hands of my enemies, can I?" The boy was silent, scared, confused. Could he use his young age and undeveloped personality to his own advantage? Of course he could. Perhaps, taking another life didn't necessarily mean killing, but, perhaps, changing?

Hiding his wand in his sleeve he reached out and carefully picked the child up, feeling how tensed the small body was under his touch. He had never held an infant before and suddenly came to a realization that he was acting very foolishly now, he hadn't even once considered taking the boy with him and now was faced with a problem of being completely incompetent in handling children.

"I should follow my initial plan and just kill you," he muttered, frowning, however, his thoughts were interrupted by the distant sounds of Aurors apparating onto the lawn and shouting orders. He had no time to stay and make a choice. "Today is indeed your lucky day," he told Harry Potter and, pressing him close to his chest, disappeared from the nursery just a second before Severus Snape ran inside and stumbled at the threshold, staring wildly at the cold face of Lily Potter, that was forever frozen in an expression of grief and loss.

xxx

Rush actions always led to unpredictable, drastic consequences, it was the basic knowledge one had had since his birth, had gotten it along with the milk of his mother, or through the pain of others' unkind touch in his case. It was indeed careless of him to bring the boy to his manor - what was he going to do with him? Voldemort pushed his long, wet, tangled hair back and glared at Harry Potter, who sat on the chair before him, still watching him warily, with tears still staining his round face.

"I need to get to the bottom of this," he growled lowly at the infant and turned away from him. He despised children as much as he despised the human kind in general, however, it wasn't the time to let his personal preferences affect the right decision that had to be made. "Wormtail!" he barked, seeing out of the corner of his eye that the boy jerked fearfully at the harsh sound and pressed himself hard into the back of the chair, as if trying to dissipate into it. Voldemort caught himself thinking that Potter was too quiet for his age. Perhaps, the infant was defected?

"My lord!" Peter Pettigrew burst into the hall and prostrated himself at his master's feet. He hadn't noticed the child at first, but a weak cry of surprise escaped Harry's lips at the sight of one of his named uncles, and Peter looked up sharply only to scream in horror, "Master?! The boy! You spared him?!"

"If you are going to question my authority, there is only one answer you can get in return," Voldemort hissed at him scornfully and drew his wand.

"No, no! Master, I never doubt your wisdom!" Peter cringed, shaking his head vehemently, and kissed the wet hem of his robe and tried to lick on his bare feet, but Voldemort pushed him away.

"Enough! Take Bella and Lestranges, go to Longbottoms and bring me their child as well!" Crawling backwards and bowing Peter stumbled in the doorway, when he felt his master's heavy gaze. "And, Peter... Should you fail - prepare to die, slowly and painfully."

Wormtail nodded awkwardly and disappeared with a loud squeak.

"Pete," Harry called after him in a small voice, staring at the door - he was too young to understand what was going on, he had just learned to say his parents' and uncles' names, everything that had happened to him in the course of the last fifteen minutes felt like chaos.

Too scared to cry, he could only whimper softly and look back at the tall, dangerous man, whose pale, oddly distorted face was hidden behind the curtain of thick, tangled, mellow brown hair. But the most unusual feature of the stern, cold stranger were his red eyes, that looked so intently, piercing through Harry's very soul it seemed. He was too young and undeveloped to understand it, of course, but the man's aura felt so dark and oppressing, that he instinctively knew that throwing a tantrum will not do him any good.

Voldemort smirked cruelly at the boy, "I doubt you would want to associate yourself any more with a man who sold out your parents and you, dear Harry." Why was he talking to a barely eloquent ball of flesh, muscles and few brain cells? It was possible that horcruxes had taken their toll on him after all.

Scowling at the thought he let out an irritated sigh: in his quest to conquer death he accepted no limits, no confinements, didn't care for his own well being as long as the result granted him immortality. But the notion that his own sanity could be the price for everything he had achieved so far truly disappointed him, unsettled. Voldemort pulled a ring out of his pocket - the one he had planned to turn into yet another horcrux of his after killing the Potter boy - one of the few heirlooms that were left of his family, that he had never known.

Could he really make one of the Deathly Hallows into a vessel for his soul? It was doubtful that anybody could come searching for it, since most believed the Hallows to be a mere legend, he, however, knew that in the world of magic accidents and coincidences were very real, worse, inevitable. Twirling it in his fingers absentmindedly Voldemort lowered himself on his throne and slumped in it tiredly, while nobody could see his unbecoming posture. The ring was supposed to become his third and last horcrux, but once again he felt uncertain. At first, many years ago, he used to entertain the idea of splitting his soul into seven pieces, since the number was the most powerful one in the theory of arithmathy, however, after his second horcrux had dramatically undermined his health and maimed his body and mind, he came to a conclusion that he could not survive more than three splits.

His first horcrux, that he had created at the tender age of sixteen, a journal, was kept in the secret library of Malfoy Manor; the second one - his mother's locket, inherited from Salazar Slytherin himself - was hidden in a cave amidst the sea, guarded by an army of the inferi; his third and last one was supposed to be kept here, right under his watchful eye, however...

Shifting in his seat and crossing his legs, annoyed, he glared at the ring angrily. It wasn't wise to make all the three of them into inanimate objects, the less predictable, less obvious vessel he chose, the less chances there were that it would ever be discovered and destroyed. Squeezing his eyes shut and pinching the bridge of his nose he threw his head back and sighed - the migraine was once again slowly building in his head. He needed to execute the ritual as soon as possible, while he could still feel the fracture that his soul had gone through.

The high pitched cry of a suddenly present Pettigrew snapped him out of his heavy thoughts and he sprang on his feet with the Killing Curse already at the tip of his tongue, only to see Wormtail rolling miserably on the floor, cradling his bleeding hand or what was left of it. The little boy finally started crying meekly at the sight of blood and obvious hurt of another and Voldemort had to silence him with a spell, as he massaged his temples and tried very hard to restrain himself from killing the idiot on the floor before him.

"What. Is. This?" he hissed, taking a step towards Peter and towering over him, with his face twisted in disdain and rage.

"Master, master!" Wormtail wailed, "Master, it's B-Black, he knows I am the one-one who betrayed P-p-potters, he went after me and took my ha-a-and!" He stretched out his maimed limb, pleading his master to help him.

"And why should it be my problem?" Voldemort sneered at him and kicked him in the ribs, "Useless rat! Where is the child?"

"G-gone!" the man bellowed and cringed before him, "Ma-master, forgive me! We were trapped! Bella and others are c-c-captured by the Aurors! They killed the Longbottoms and their b-boy!"

"Fuck!" Voldemort sputtered venomously, shaking in rage. The three Lestranges were his best fighters and most faithful followers, the ones he knew could never betray him, since they weren't very bright but addicted to violence and his power. They were going to be either executed or put in Azkaban, and none of these options suited him. "Are you certain the boy is dead?" He bent down sharply, grabbing on Wormtail's fat, sweaty face and staring into his watery blue eyes.

"Y-y-yes!" Peter cried and wailed again, when his master violently burst into his mind and extracted the most recent memories.

Yes, the Longbottoms' scion was most certainly dead, being ripped to shreds by the powerful blasting spell, that Bella had managed to throw before her hands were bound and her wand was broken. Now there was only Harry Potter left and the mysterious last lines of the prophecy for him to deal with. "Get out of my sight, rat!" he snarled and pushed the other harshly away, straightening and rubbing his hand against his robe, wrinkling his crooked nose in disgust.

Voldemort turned his back to his incompetent servant and tiredly walked back to his throne, curling his fingers in an attempt to control his wrath. He never heard Wormtail leave, he simply fell back into his seat and stared into the darkness of the hall, barely lit by the faintly burning torches. After a few minutes of concentrated work of bringing his emotions and thoughts into order in his mind he dropped his head into his hands and let out an exhausted groan, desperately wishing for rest.

Quiet but annoying whimpering made him look up and hiss warningly at the crying boy, "If you don't shut your mouth this instant you would end up like the hand of that fat piece of shit!"

The threat was understood and Harry immediately shut up, watching him with terrified eyes. At least somebody could follow his orders properly. Voldemort raised his upper lip in disgust and averted his gaze, biting on his long tongue in ire. Everything went completely wrong today, he had made so many unreasoned moves, had acted so uncharacteristically and was now facing even more problems than before. Tugging on his hair helplessly he turned the thought in his mind again and again: he needed to make his horcrux now, he couldn't waste time and strength anymore, his recovery was going to take a very long time and now was the perfect chance to lay low and wait calmly for the storm to pass. He needed to make a horcrux while he could...

His eyes moved onto the boy's small form again and he creased his brow in concentration and wonder. It wasn't heard of that a vessel could be another human being with a soul of their own, and yet his genuine curiosity and hunger for knowledge got the better of him. What was he going to lose, really? If it didn't work, his soul would simply reside in the ring, as he had initially planned, and the boy would die, as he was supposed to right from the beginning. But if it worked, then he would be able to have his horcrux right by his side all the time, hidden in the plain sight, guided and guarded by him... He suddenly felt excited with the prospect of performing an experiment, that was never even thought of. Smiling viciously to himself in agitation he slowly rose up and moved closer to the boy, who was crying again, sobbing softly and whimpering pitifully, like a wounded animal.

"Harry, Harry, don't be afraid, this is not going to hurt," he murmured softly, tilting his head and watching him hungrily, itching in anticipation. How truly miraculous his powers were, how unpredictable and terrifyingly wonderful the magic was, that it gave him such rare, unique opportunities to test his own limits again and again. "I will simply put a little spell on you, dear," he crooned mockingly and pressed the tip of his wand against the boy's forehead. He stared into the big, bright, emerald eyes and laughed gleefully. "Crux-en-dehors!"

Harry screamed in pain and fear, as a sound of an inhuman howl pierced the air, and after a flash of light blinded his vision, darkness fell around him suddenly. Something hot and wet was slowly flowing down his forehead and Harry rubbed on the burning and aching spot above his right brow, wailing loudly in hurting, disoriented and alone in the dark.

Moaning and panting in pain, clawing on his aching chest Voldemort came to his senses and flattered his eyes open wide, gaping like a fish, trying to catch the air that seemed to have been taken out of his lungs. His blood pounded deafeningly in his ears and he could not hear or see anything around him, all he knew was that another piece of his soul had been taken from him. It worked, but with which vessel? Coughing and spitting blood, that left an unpleasant, copper flavour on his tongue, he rolled on his side and blindly felt for his wand that had fallen out of his hand under the sheer power of his spell. Perhaps, he had killed the brat after all?

"Fuck," he groaned again and again, pressing his burning forehead against the cool stones of the floor and stretching his muscles in an attempt to lift his own body up. This was the last straw, he felt hollow and completely drained of his power - there could be no other horcrux, he was sure he would die in the process, should he try and repeat the ritual. He dragged himself up, moaning and swearing incomprehensibly, and searched for the small body. But as soon as his hands found plump, warm legs, the boy jerked away from him and he suddenly acknowledged that he was, in fact, hearing him cry.

"Are you alive, my boy?" Voldemort laughed hysterically, astonished, "Are you fucking alive?!"

He moved closer and waved his hand weakly for the lights to turn on. Harry sat before him with a harsh wound on his face, bleeding and crying on the verge of his lungs. Wincing at the unbearable sounds Voldemort pulled on his form and grabbed on his small head, reaching for the source of his pain - it wasn't lethal, just a deep but otherwise insignificant injury, that was going to leave a simple scar behind. But he felt it, just like in his other horcruxes, he felt the weak but steady pull of his soul, hidden inside the infant. "Oh, Harry!" he cackled madly, "But you are my little Frankenstein monster, are you not?" He burst into bouts of deep, booming laughter, pulling the whining, struggling boy into his arms, and licked on his running blood, laughing all the while.

Harry tried to turn away from him, but the persistent tongue kept licking on his wound and somehow its caress brought him comfort and soothed his pain. He stopped screaming and only cried softly, as it gradually subsided into dull, slight itching under his skin. He fisted his small hands into the scary man's robes, holding on tightly and sobbed, pouting his swollen lips and watching the other warily, offended and hurt.

"Now, now, don't give me that look, you might get cursed for it," Voldemort chuckled coldly, savouring the flavour on his palette - the boy's blood tasted so sweet and surprisingly healing, it loosened the tight knot in his chest.

Scowling, he pushed the boy away sharply, having had suddenly acknowledged that he was embracing him. The Dark Lord didn't hug, snog, didn't touch others - nobody deserved his touch. However, he mused, watching the infant stand up clumsily and whimper softly in perplexion, if he had made the child his horcrux, his most precious possession, then he most probably will have to learn to let him into his personal space. How else was he going to teach him and make him into a worthy wizard? Sighing in defeat he stood up as well and bent down to take Harry by the collar of his blooded nightshirt.

"Fine, stop whining, Harry, I hate children so you will have to make an allowance for my temper," he muttered and dragged the boy after him, grumping in displeasure at the slow pace of Harry's awkward, uncertain steps. Though his own left much to be desired. "Haven't those useless parents of yours taught you to walk? You are two years old, for Salazar's sake, are you an imbecile?"

Voldemort led him through the long, dark corridors and one floor up the old, creaky staircase, covered by the dusty, thinning carpet, glaring at Harry every time he stumbled or hindered. They turned and entered the left wing and stopped before the three heavy, dark wooden doors. Voldemort hummed to himself, pondering over where should he put the boy - he needed to be constantly supervised and the most reasonable choice was to put him next to his personal bedroom.

"Here is your room," he growled and pushed the nearest door open, revealing a small but cosy space, filled with old furniture, that was covered in layers and layers of dirt and dust. Narrowing his eyes at the state of the place Voldemort clicked his tongue and waved his wand in a simple pattern, banishing the mess away. Now that a child was going to live here he had to find a house-elf to care for him - he had no intention of becoming a maid and a baby sitter even for the piece of his own soul.

Pulling Harry up and placing him carelessly onto the bed, he walked around the room, inspecting the chests of drawers and a wardrobe, that were full of old-fashioned clothes, that used to belong to Tom Riddle Sr, whose nursery this bedroom turned out to be. "Well, go on then, sleep already," Voldemort scowled at the boy, turning away from the window, that looked over the hills and the roofs of the town of Little Hangleton.

Harry stared at him in confusion, rubbing on his wet face with his small fists. He couldn't understand what did this scary man want from him, when was he going to see his parents again. He didn't want to sleep, but to go home.

"Oh, for fuck's sake!" the man spat and pointed his wand at him and in a second Harry fell back and asleep.

xxx

Voldemort threw himself on his bed and groaned loudly, now that he was finally alone and wasn't going to be disturbed. Every cell of his body ached and itched and if he didn't know what exactly was happening to him he would have thought he was set on fire. Summoning the healing and restorative potions, that were being kept on the bedside table, he gulped them down, one by one, seething inside at the display of the strong tremor in his hands. Horcruxes weakened him so much he often wondered how were they going to ensure his immortality if he could be killed with a simple cutting curse in the state the ritual had left him in.

However, the boy's blood had indeed helped him and he furrowed his brow, considering the reason behind its healing qualities, as he stared at the ceiling. He had made a decision which consequences were absolutely unpredictable, for, usually able to foresee almost everything, he was now lost and befuddled. Voldemort sighed and placed his hand over his burning forehead - he was running a fever again, though, unlike the last time, there were no seizures. And he wasn't completely drained of his powers, elementary magic was still available to him...

How was he going to cope with the child? His thoughts had once again returned to one Harry Potter, who was sleeping peacefully in the room next door. He, of course, couldn't let any of the Death Eaters know of the boy, since the knowledge could reach Dumbledore's ears and that was the opposite of what he wished. He would have to perform a fake execution for his followers, in order to assure them of his own greatness and invincibility in the face of the child, who was prophesied to defeat him, to assure them that nobody could rival him...

But he had marked Harry Potter as his equal, had he not? The scar that was going to form on his forehead was going to be the fateful mark... Hadn't he placed the mysterious power into the child as well? Only time could show how exactly his soul was able to affect Harry's and his magic. Was the horcrux going to turn the boy into a dark wizard? Voldemort's carbon copy? Harry's tender age was rather advantageous, since he was capable of moulding him into the person he wished to have by his side, that is if the boy had any brain at all. It was hard to judge yet.

He could very well take one of Lucius' elves to care for the child, he thought, as he slowly pulled the covers over his form, ignoring the unpleasant wetness of his robe and hair - he was going to sweat while going through the fever anyway. Harry would have to be kept hidden and confined to this wing, educated solely by him and nobody else... Since when had he started thinking of the brat as Harry? What a truly banal, mundane muggle name... Moaning Voldemort shifted to lie on his side and pushed his wand under the pillow, holding onto it tightly. In the morning he would plan everything very carefully, but right now he needed to help his body regenerate after being exhausted so horribly again.

xxx

"I couldn't do anything, Albus, I couldn't save him," Severus whispered, hunching his shoulders and squeezing his eyes shut in resentment.

"I doubt any of us could have done anything in your position, my boy," Dumbledore sighed gravely and reached out to pat the wizard on the shoulder, but halted and dropped his hands helplessly down instead.

They sat in his office, watching the first rays of sun peek through the colourful pieces of the stained glass in the windows. The previous night, the night of the Halloween of 1981 was one of the worst that the Order of the Phoenix had ever had. They lost their four best members: James and Lily, Alice and Frank; they lost the poor, innocent Neville Longbottom; but most importantly they lost the child of the prophecy, the one who was supposed to bring the end to Voldemort's reign. This early morning Severus had brought them urgent news from the Death Eaters' meeting, that the Dark Lord had held just a few hours ago. Horrified they watched the potions master's memories in the pensieve, in which Voldemort had mercilessly killed Harry Potter right in front of all of his followers, laughing triumphantly and proclaiming his invincibility and greatness.

"It is I who must be blamed for everything that happened," Dumbledore admitted quietly, turning to look at the few wizards and witches, who were silently mourning the great loss. Devastated he thought that he could almost feel the hope die slowly, as a heavy gloom suddenly descended upon the room, when the clouds had hidden the sun behind their dark grey thickness. "I should have taken them abroad and never let them have another Secret Keeper beside myself." He took off his glasses and stared at the frame unseeingly, feeling the unbearable weight pushing down on his shoulders, bending him down to the ground.

"If only I knew, if only I haven't listened to that scum of a traitor, that cunning rat..." Sirius Black sprang up on his feet and started pacing the office, tugging on his tangled, dirty hair helplessly. He had spent the whole day and night searching for Peter Pettigrew after he had escaped him in the muggle London, but all of his efforts were for naught. "If only I..."

"Stop whining!" Severus suddenly snapped, glaring at the desperate Auror. "What is the point in what ifs now, when they are all dead and you were the one who was supposed to keep them save?!"

"You are not the only one who lost someone dear last night, Snivellus!" Sirius snarled, moving sharply to hit him in the face, but the strong arms of others restrained him and he fell on his knees, suddenly weak and useless. "I know it's my fault, I should have never trusted Peter and let him take the responsibilities of the Secret Keeper..."

Shaking his head sorrowfully Dumbledore helped him up, holding him gently by the shoulders. "I am afraid it wouldn't have changed anything, Sirius. Voldemort would have captured you and destroyed your mind with the help of Legilimency, extracting the necessary information out of you. Whatever you did it would have been in vain, believe me. I underestimated Voldemort once again and this is where my mistake has led us all."

"Poor, poor Harry," Minerva McGonagall sobbed into her handkerchief soundlessly, however, her shoulders shook so hard, that Kingsley Shacklebot had to squeeze them tightly to prevent the old witch from fainting.

"What are we going to do now?" he asked Dumbledore, who waved his wand to pour strong, herbal tea into their cups.

"We must go on as if nothing has happened," Albus said, lowering himself heavily into his armchair and watching Severus, who had once again drew back into his shell and looked distant and uncaring. "We have to keep fighting him. Now that we don't have Harry, there is no other option for us..."

"And what if we had him?" Everybody turned their heads at the sound of a soft, kind voice of Remus Lupin, who hadn't yet spoken one word since the beginning of their meeting. "What if we had Harry, how was he going to help us fight Voldemort, being just an ordinary, defenseless boy?"

Hurt and grief could be heard in his words, thick tears ran down his hollow cheeks, but his amber eyes were hidden from everybody, for he sat with his head hung lowly, shamefully. He too blamed himself, Dumbledore thought bitterly. They all blamed themselves.

"We could have trained him, taught him what common wizards don't and can't know, given him skills to fight Death Eaters, I suppose," Shacklebot offered uncertainly and looked up at the headmaster.

But Dumbledore averted his gaze, leaving the silent question unanswered. Of course it all was his fault, for he could have easily hidden Potters abroad, but the prophecy said Voldemort was going to mark Harry as his equal and after that was the boy supposed to defeat him.

"You wanted the Dark Lord to find them, didn't you?" Severus sneered, twisting his face into a sour, ugly expression. "You wanted him to mark the Potters' boy specifically, not Longbottoms'. I see that now." He stood up sharply and strode to the door, but stopped at the threshold and turned around to throw one last glance at his master. "You are guilty of her death as much as the Dark Lord is, if not more. If it wasn't for your manipulations, he might have never even found them." His face was but a stony mask and his eyes were just as cold and hard. He curled his fingers and, having had hidden his trembling hands in the deep pockets of his teaching robe, quickly left.

"Is it true? What he has just said?" Sirius also stood up, staring at the headmaster in confusion.

"The prophecy says Voldemort would mark the boy as his equal, which means that Harry would be able to defeat him... I thought that if I played on his paranoia and fear of death, that if I forced him onto Harry to at least make him mark the boy, it would weaken him, or even kill..."

Dumbledore rubbed his old, wrinkled hands together, mourning his another great mistake. He used to think himself to be a wise man, an intelligent and a cunning man, but as the years went by, looking back, he couldn't completely agree with that notion anymore.

"But it could also be Neville! He too came from a pureblooded, powerful family, that fought the Death Eaters numerous times, he was born just a day before Harry... How could you choose one of them, doom one of them for such a horrible fate?" Minerva gasped, placing her hand around her throat in fear and unease.

"I never chose Harry, it was Voldemort who did it. When Severus had told him the first few lines that he knew, Voldemort started looking for Potters first. It was a sign, for prophecies are made about those whose destinies are united and no matter how powerful, how cunning a wizard is, he cannot fight the order of the magic. He chose involuntarily, following his heart's call, however impossible it might seem. We will never know what compelled him to choose Harry, but he did and that was when he sealed their fates."

He wished he didn't have to tell them this and the whole prophecy - the less people knew of it, the better. Although now it was nullified...

"And you've decided to help him out?" Remus asked hoarsely, still not looking up at anybody. "How long have you known that Peter was a Death Eater? Even Severus didn't know..."

"I never had any evidence, but I did have my suspicions," Dumbledore reluctantly admitted.

"And what does this all mean?" Shacklebot creased his brow, perplexed. "Was the child of the prophecy supposed to die anyway? How could you know that?"

"I didn't but... " he sighed, rubbing on his eyes, "I know Voldemort better than anybody else, I am probably the only one who lives, bearing such great knowledge of him and his deeds. He is not called the greatest Dark Lord of the century for nothing, he surpasses even Gellert Grindelwald, surpasses not only in power but in cunningness as well... I could not afford having any illusions. To kill a wizard like Voldemort one must die as well..."

He looked at their sorrowful, wounded expressions and had nothing to offer them to lessen their pain. When one was aiming to save thousands, losing dozens was inevitable. That was what Gellert had once taught him.

"Unlike Grindelwald, he never rushed to overpower, to enslave everybody at once, he slowly but steadily improved his own skills and abilities, he studied the darkest arts of magic to make himself invincible, he always plotted, being two steps ahead of his enemies... You have all seen him in Severus' memory. You have seen what had he done to himself. His horrible, almost inhuman appearance is the result of the blackest, most dangerous magic, countless experiments he had performed in order to make himself immortal. His greatest and only weakness is his fear of death, however... Judging by the way he celebrated his victory, I have to conclude that he had probably achieved his goal after all..." He steepled his fingers in front of his face and closed his eyes in exhaustion. What he feared the most had happened despite his best efforts to stop it. "I doubt anybody will be able to survive a fight with him now."

"Well, now there is simply nobody to fight him at all," Remus chuckled bitterly, summoning his cup of tea and sipping on it modestly.

xxx

Voldemort woke up, feeling completely exhausted and battered, however, his magic was slowly coming back to him, he could feel it surging through his veins. It was a good sign, he could manage the physical pain easily, knowing that his powers hadn't left him. Slowly rising up on his unsteady, shaking legs, he tried to stretch his stiffened, aching muscles, groaning loudly in discomfort. He had run out of the healing potions, all that was left was a lonely vial of a Pepper-Up. Grimacing at the lack of any alternatives he corked the glass container open and drowned its foully smelling contains. It was better than nothing.

As his mind cleared gradually he decided that he had to contact Lucius and Severus first, since he needed an elf from the former and new potions from the latter... He had forgotten about the child. Growling lowly in exasperation Voldemort stumbled out of his bedroom, holding onto his spinning head, and froze in the corridor when he took in the sight of Harry's door standing ajar. Hadn't he locked it yesterday? He could have forgotten, being in such a state.

He looked inside, but the bed was empty. Scowling and feeling his anger getting the better of him he stormed out and down the wing, as fast as he could. He knew that Harry was somewhere close, he didn't have to worry that somebody could take him, but he knew he would have constant headaches from an infant that could very well kill himself accidentally and take his soul with him. Fuming he walked forward. However, he didn't have to search for long.

"Mama?" Harry slowly moved along the wall in the adjoining corridor, looking around in confusion and fear. Taking one uncertain step after another, he walked forward and called for his parents. "Papa?"

"They are dead." He turned to the sound of a harsh, hoarse voice and jerked at the sight of the red eyed man standing at the corner, leaning onto the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. He looked even scarier now in the faint daylight, with his sickeningly pale skin, distorted features and long, wild hair, sticking everywhere. "You are alone now, Harry." He couldn't help but sneer at the pout that appeared on the boy's face.

"Mama?" Harry asked him in a small voice, clutching onto his green, blooded pajamas nervously.

"Dead. She will never ever come back." Somehow it felt particularly pleasant to deprive the child of his last hope. Now they were even, now they were, however ridiculous it sounded, equal. Both orphans, both alone and against the whole world. At the sight of the trembling lips and the tears welling up in the big, green eyes Voldemort snapped, "Stop whining! You are a wizard, not a petty muggle!"

And it was when he felt it. The slight shift in the air around them, or in their auras, it was hard to decipher clearer, but as soon as he shouted Harry screamed in pain and grabbed on his head, rubbing hysterically on his scar, that started bleeding again.

Raising his eyebrows in surprise and curiosity Voldemort stepped closer and crouched before the boy, taking him by the tiny fists and pushing them apart to take a better look at his face. The scar, nicely shaped in a form of a lighting bolt, bled and pulsed very much like a cursed wound would. "Ah, you are affected by my emotions..." he guessed, nodding his head in satisfaction. He was excited to find out how far would his and Harry's connection stretch, for, certainly, wizards sharing one soul could not lead an ordinary existence.

He reached out to touch the scar with his cold fingers and took a deep breath, trying to calm himself down - just as he suspected, Harry calmed down as well, hiccuping quietly and whimpering softly at the subsiding pain.

"How curious," Voldemort drawled, rubbing the blood off of the small forehead and licking it off of his fingers, "I will have to teach you Occlumency in the future, otherwise you will go insane sooner than I myself will," he chuckled, already feeling much better.

Harry watched the scary man in confusion. He couldn't understand why was he hurting him and then soothing his pain all the time... He only wanted to see his parents again, but the man said they would not come back... Lost, overwhelmed with information and his own inability to digest it properly, Harry sobbed hysterically and threw himself at the only human being, who was next to him, seeking warmth and reassurance, shelter.

Shocked Voldemort found his arms full of the small boy, who clung to him as if his life depended on it, crying meekly into his already ruined robe. Rolling his eyes in exasperation he carefully but firmly pushed Harry away.

"Enough. I can't stand weak sops like you are, pull yourself together," he muttered and straightened himself, squeezing his eyes as the space around him started spinning maddeningly. "You must return to your room and wait for me there. As soon as I get a house-elf for you, you will find it easier to adjust to your new living arrangements." He once again pulled on the boy's collar and forced him to follow, ignoring Harry's weak, incomprehensible squeaks of protest.

Placing him back on the bed Voldemort looked around and spelled all the doors shut, as well as the window and the empty hearth. It wouldn't do if the infant hurt himself - he was too weak yet to be able to heal him with magic and couldn't trust anybody else with the boy's health either.

"Wait for me here, I will be back soon and you will eat," he gritted out slowly, so that the little imbecile could understand him clearly. He raised his finger and pointed it at Harry sharply, making him jerk fearfully and stare at it as if it was a dangerous weapon, "And no crying!"

Seeing that the boy had indeed gotten his warning Voldemort left the bedroom and locked the door behind him. Now that the child was isolated he could deal with everything else.

"Luciussss!" he hissed, straining himself to will his magic obey him. Falling helplessly back onto his throne he barely managed to find his posture before a very pale and nervous Lucius Malfoy entered the hall and kneeled before him.

"My lord!" he couldn't help but gasp at the sight of an even more distorted, pale face of his master, that clearly showed how sick and weak the great wizard felt. However, his back was straight as always and his gaze was just as piercing, cold, hostile. Even sick he was still dangerous, though Lucius was smart enough to understand that none of them could really rival him in power and intelligence. It was safer to submit to him and his will.

"I am perfectly well, Lucius, if you are inquiring about my health. I would like to grace you with a privilege of knowing a great secret," Voldemort wriggled his thick eyebrows and smiled cruelly at the fair haired wizard at his feet, who watched him with admiration and bald curiosity. It was so easy to buy Malfoy's trust and loyalty, however, it was just as easy to lose them in a flick of his fingers. "I have achieved my goal and gained immortality."

"Master! I never doubted your genius!" Lucius cried in excitement and fear, kissing the hem of his robe, that looked unkept, ruined. Had he been experimenting during the whole night? Did this man know rest at all?

"Yes, I thought so. Now, you are to keep it a great secret between the two of us, you understand." At Malfoy's vehement nods of understanding and assurance he sighed in feigned boredom and added lightly, "There is another matter for us to discuss as well. I need a house-elf, the one that works in the household, cooks, cleans, the smartest and the most eloquent one. Since I am not going to buy one, obviously, I want you to spare one of yours."

"Of course, my lord, it will be an honour to present you with one of my servants," Lucius bowed, wondering why had his master suddenly decided to obtain an elf, when he never needed it before? He always ate at the manors of his followers and, since he never used any rooms except a bedroom and a study, there was no necessity for cleaning. "There is one elf that would meet your criteria, I think. He is rather old, but, surprisingly, educated. He cared for me when I was a child, I trust him with everything personal and intimate."

"Splendid. I need him now," Voldemort said simply and stared at Malfoy expectantly, satisfied with the outcome. He could very well trust such servant with Harry completely and don't even think about the boy.

"Y-yes, certainly, my lord," Lucius couldn't help but raise his eyebrows in surprise. It all was rather unexpected, but then again, who was the Dark Lord to ever fit the limits of the ordinary? "Daedalus!" he called and looked up at his master, who flickered his fingers to let the elf come through the wards.

A small, round creature appeared before them, its big ears shook slightly under their own size and weight on a small, withered head. The elf hastily fell on his knees at the sight of the famous red eyed warlock.

"Daedalus," Lucius addressed him, clearing his throat and taking on a business like tone. It wasn't hard to part with an elf, since he never really cared for him, but he still felt suspicious of the reasons behind his master's unusual order. "My lord wishes to obtain himself a house-elf and you are honoured to be chosen worthy of his ownership. I present you to the Dark Lord."

Daedalus stared at Malfoy helplessly, but straightened his posture at the same time. He had no right to argue his master's wishes, if he was to be passed on into another family he was supposed to take it as an honour not an offense. However, he couldn't believe that lord Malfoy could disregard his honest service so easily, could forget about his own childhood that he had spent with Daedalus, under his protection and care. "Yes, master," he bowed lowly, touching the ground with the tip of his long nose.

Lucius drew his wand and, pointing it at the elf, drawled the long incantation. He shivered when he felt the binds fall and the next moment he had no power over the creature anymore. "My lord," he pushed the elf slightly towards the Dark Lord and stepped aside, pondering over the information that he had received. Perhaps, the warlock's immortality had severely weakened him and in order to restore his health and power he wasn't going to leave his manor for a long period of time? What other reasons could he have for taking an elf in?

"I bind you to my name and my blood and my soul," Voldemort said lowly and placed his hand on the top of the elf's head, watching impatiently, as the black and silver binds appeared out of the thin air and circled him and the small creature.

"I belong to you, master," Daedalus dutifully answered and let the darkest, oiliest, most unpleasant magic reach out for his core and possess it. He used to think his young master Lucius was the darkest wizard of all, but he had been clearly mistaken.

"Now, Lucius, you are free to go. I will hold a meeting tonight, for all of the Death Eaters and followers, I have a very important announcement to make. It would be most convenient if you warned everybody, since I am busy with my work," he drawled, letting go of the elf and ignoring him for pretense's sake. How low had he fallen that he had to pretend in front of his own slaves, but alas, if this was the price of his immortality...

"Of course, master. Good day," Lucius bowed, struggling to keep his face as impassive as he could. His Lord must have been weakened beyond possible, if he couldn't summon everybody through the mark. Wary of showing his concerns he hastily left.

Daedalus patiently stood by the Dark Lord's side, careful not to look at him, watching the torches' flame dance instead, telling himself that from this day he had to forget everything that there was between him and the Malfoy family. "Daedalus," he heard a calm, quiet call and turned, kneeling before his new master obligingly.

"Tell me, Daedalus, should I use my own bindings on you in order to prevent you from giving out any kind of information about me and your duties under my ownership?" Voldemort leaned forward and looked at the elf intently.

"No, master," Daedalus shook his head, slapping himself with his floppy ears, "I will never pass anything to anyone, even under torture I would never give up your secrets."

"Hmm, this is rather satisfactory. Follow me then," he stood up and walked out of the hall and down the same route he led Harry yesterday, not once looking back, knowing very well that the elf would follow.

They reached the nursery and Voldemort halted at the door, listening in - it was very quiet inside. Frowning he pushed the door handle and entered the room. Harry sat on the bed, just like he had left him. Snorting inwardly at the unexpected obedience he turned to Daedalus, "This is Harry, your young master, you will bond later when he grows up, I believe. But for now he is your only responsibility. You will care for him, clean, help him develop and cook for both him and me. We will only use these three rooms in the wing."

"I understand, master," Daedalus said quietly, staring at the small boy, who was staring back at him. What a secret the Dark Lord had indeed! A child!

"It is imperative that he always stays here, the Death Eaters can't know about him," Voldemort growled warningly. "Keep him safe, sated and healthy, nothing else is needed of you."

"I will, master," Daedalus bowed. Perhaps, this wasn't such a bad alternative after all? Caring for the Dark Lord's child would be very much like caring for young master Lucius. "Master Harry," he smiled at the infant, coming closer and tentatively reaching out to touch him, "My name is Daedalus."

Harry had never seen anything like this strange creature before. It didn't look dangerous and wasn't as scary as the red eyed man, who kept scowling at him, as if Harry had done something wrong. Hadn't he obediently waited in his room?

"Dadalus," he mumbled, and held out his small hand for the elf to hold. The creature's touch was gentle and warm and Harry smiled involuntarily for the first time ever since he came to this place.

Voldemort watched the small, but bright smile appear on the child's face and couldn't help but notice how much it changed Harry, making him look very handsome even for a little boy. Smile was a good sign, it meant he forgot about his parents and wasn't going to throw a tantrum any time soon. One problem was finally solved.

"I leave him to you completely. Everything you need to buy for him is to be put under the name of Riddle."

"Yes, master," Daedalus bowed.

"Money is not an issue, however, I do not wish for the child to have toys and be a spoilt aristocrat. He must improve his intellect, for I have great plans for him in the future," Voldemort drawled over his shoulder and left, feeling strangely peaceful, as if a great weight had left his shoulders.

"Are you hungry, master Harry?" Daedalus smiled at his little lord, who kept watching him with wide, astonished eyes. Harry nodded awkwardly and smiled some more when the elf squeaked happily and rubbed his hands together in anticipation. "I will be back in no time!" he cried and disappeared with a loud pop, making Harry stare helplessly around.

He looked under the covers, under the bed, he even crawled around and looked under the desk, but the elf was nowhere to be seen. But before he could start crying, left to his own devices again, he heard another pop and turned to see Daedalus with a tray in his small hands.

The elf helped Harry up on the bed and pushed a tray towards him, sitting down opposite the boy. He put a spoon into the child's hand and took another one himself and started feeding Harry his very first porridge with berries and fruits.

xxx

In the late evening of the same day Daedalus brought the biggest rabbit he could find in the village, just like his master had ordered him. Voldemort took the scared animal gently into his hands and sent the elf to put Harry to sleep. Daedalus returned into the hall just in time to see a hundred of Death Eaters stand in a circle around their master, who held Harry in his hands. Only the elf had just put the boy to sleep and this Harry didn't smell like human... Had the Dark Lord turned the rabbit into the boy? But what for?

"Behold, everyone! The child of the prophecy, the one who is supposed to defeat me! Harry Potter!" Voldemort stretched his arms and raised the child high in the air, barely standing on his feet, feeling the blackness washing over his consciousness. If he hadn't drunk the potions, that Severus brought him just before the meeting, he would have definitely fainted. "He is no danger to me or to you!" he continued, watching their astonished, frightened expressions.

Daedalus shook his head in bewilderment. Wasn't Harry Potter the one whose family the Dark Lord had killed so ruthlessly? He had heard Malfoys discussing the accident: the boy disappeared and the Death Eaters believed he had been taken by the Order. However, he had been here with the Dark Lord all this time and clearly wasn't going to be actually harmed. The behavior of the most dangerous and darkest wizard of the century remained a mystery to the old elf.

"Tonight you will once again witness the evidence of my invincibility and greatness! If anybody doubts me - speak up!" But nobody dared, of course. Smiling viciously, Voldemort threw the child onto the floor and pointed his white yew wand at him, "Avada Kedavra!"

His harsh voice rumbled through the deadly silent hall, echoing slightly in its darkest corners. The boy lay motionless before the wizards, he was dead. The thunder of applause was what Voldemort heard mere seconds later. His servants cheered him, agitated and, undoubtedly, frightened to death. The notion that the Dark Lord could beat even the Fate itself and overcome any obstacles on his way to his goals was both horrifying and elating.

"Now, we should address much more significant matters," Voldemort said simply, gesturing for Daedalus to take the body away. As soon as the elf moved it out of the hall the corpse transformed back into the rabbit. "The matter of our comrades, who have been captured by the Aurors."

The Dark Lord sank into his throne, trying hard to keep his back as straight as possible. Advanced transfiguration wasn't a difficult task for somebody as talented and powerful as he was, however, his condition suggested otherwise. An intricate spell took its toll on him and he grudgingly admitted that he could no longer use magic, not for a few more hours certainly - he had drained his core to its limit.

Narcissa Malfoy suddenly stepped forward and fell on her knees before him, losing her ever impassive and bored attitude, crying and twisting her fingers in desperation. "My lord! I am begging you to save my sister! Bella will never survive Azkaban! I am begging you!"

Watching her undignified posture, her fat, black tears streaming down her face along with her mascara, Voldemort wondered how far was she ready to go in order to save her already insane sister. What was the cold and seemingly heartless woman truly capable of? The corners of his mouth quivered ever so slightly as he tapped on his lips with one of his long, bony fingers, musing.

"I wish to bring my most faithful and valuable follower back just as much as you wish to save your sister, my lovely Narcissa," he hissed softly, stretching his thin lips into an unkind smile, that he knew made shivers run down his servants' spines. "However, it is not the time yet. If we attack now, we would lose even more, for this is exactly what the Aurors and the Order are expecting from us, don't you agree?" At her uncertain nod he sighed and leaned forward slightly, to look her straight in the pale blue eyes, "Narcissa, Azkaban is a horrible place, one I would never leave my most loyal ones at for long. They are imprisoned, not Kissed, which means there is still hope for them and time for us to prepare. Don't make me repeat this again."

"Yes, my lord," she mumbled through her trembling lips, as Lucius took her by the shoulders and steered her back into the circle, careful not to look at his master.

He knew that it was just a question of seconds for the Dark Lord to trespass the wards of the prison and enslave the dementors, kill the guards and save their comrades. It was the wizard's weakened state that stalled the process of freeing the Lestranges. This knowledge both benefited and threatened Lucius and there was only one thing he was absolutely certain about: he had to keep his mouth shut and go with the flow.

"We will lay in wait and watch them reflect on everything that has recently happened," Voldemort addressed the crowd. "None of you would make any unnecessary moves, all those who are known to the public and are wanted by the Auror Division must hide and wait for my call, is that understood?" He saw the silent question in the many pairs of eyes, that gleamed ominously from behind their skull masks, however, nobody said a word. Satisfied he hummed to himself and waved his weak hand at them, "You are dismissed."

Sighing he slid down in his seat and hunched his shoulders, enjoying the soothing silence and emptiness of the hall. However beneficial it seemed to have servants, he found that he grew to despise their presence and mere existence with time. It was indeed satisfying and fulfilling to hold their lives in his hands, to be able to overpower them just by being superior to them, but all the difficulties, that their servitude entailed, galled him and worsened his mood. He had always been a loner, ever since he could remember his own self, he had never needed anybody to help him. Followers were the means of doing the dirty job he thought unworthy of somebody as magnificent as he himself was...

But did he really need them? They all were so unreliable, so stupid and pathetic in their hunger for his attention. None of them could be truly trusted, he knew, for should there an opportunity appear for them to save their own hides - they would surely sell him out the second the Order makes them an offer. Rubbing on his cold, sweaty forehead absentmindedly he thought back on the small boy, who was sleeping soundly in the room upstairs - if he did everything right he could very well raise one real servant for himself, somebody who would never betray him, would never even think of hurting him, simply because they shared a soul and a life together. Could he make the boy into a decent and worthy wizard? He could, of course he could. Harry Potter was very young yet, he could be easily influenced. His blood, though tainted by the mudblood mother of his, was just as ancient as Voldemort's, he was going to grow up very powerful indeed.

Of course, raising a child was something he knew next to nothing about, it was going to be the hardest of the experiments he had ever performed, Voldemort mused as he slowly ascended the stairs, holding on tightly to the rails to prevent himself from falling. He had never felt so weak in his life before, were any of his Death Eaters a little more perceptive or a little braver they could have easily finished him now. But, alas, the sheep always followed the wolf in a desperate hope that they would not be eaten. Smiling bitterly at the thought he shuffled his feet in the direction of his bedroom, however, when he passed by Harry's door he stopped and after a few seconds of consideration entered soundlessly.

A narrow strip of light from the corridor fell onto the bed and the boy's small form, coiled protectively under the thick covers. Voldemort watched his plump, lovely face and wondered how many years and how much strength and patience would it take him to make this little piece of meat into a man he could keep by his side and live forever, knowing no fear anymore. He knew he made the right decision, he knew it now, yes, there were no doubts for him to seethe over - keeping the child of the prophecy alive and secretly hidden from everyone was going to benefit him more than anything. Harry was his ace in his sleeve. The lightning bolt scar, still reddened slightly, was what his gaze stopped at and Voldemort smiled to himself at the sight - he was following the bloody prophecy for now, but even if its other part predicted his downfall it could have been already nullified in his opinion. He was going to make Harry blindly faithful, make him his, he was going to possess the boy's soul by simply turning him into his loyal slave.

xxx

A few months passed by very quickly. It was already the beginning of the spring, the snow started melting, the birds began singing, and the first wild flowers showed themselves, standing out starkly against the dark, muddy soil, that surrounded the manor. Voldemort rarely communicated with Harry, ignoring him most of the time and simply watching the boy sleep. Every night he visited the nursery and stood by the bed, staring at the small face, that was slowly but steadily changing. Harry was growing fast. The elf took very good care of him, it was obvious. His cheeks were always flushed with healthy pink hue, his eyes always shone brightly and rather artfully. Harry turned out to be a quiet, but a very mischievous, playful boy. As time went by he remembered his parents less and less, rarely throwing tantrums and asking to be taken home. Voldemort had to grudgingly admit that he hadn't heard him cry ever since Daedalus started looking after him. Harry learned more words, walked very well and fast and was even allowed to go outside in the early mornings when no Death Eaters could accidentally see him.

He stood by the window of his study, watching the boy pick a few flowers up and throw them around himself, crying excitedly. So far Harry proved to be an ordinary child, obedient, calm, but ordinary. Either his soul was still dormant in him, or wasn't going to affect him at all, Voldemort couldn't know. Of course he understood that there was no other way but to wait and see, but he hated waiting, his patience was already wearing thin. Everything was possible, Harry could have very well grown up a squib, with all of his magic concentrated on preserving the foreign soul inside of him. Nobody could predict what would happen.

And there still was the matter of the prophecy to be addressed. He needed to steal it from the Ministry, but couldn't ask anybody else for help, for it would certainly arise the unwanted questions. Massaging his temples and scowling at the happily grinning boy Voldemort sighed in exasperation to himself. There were so many obstacles and problems to be faced soon, too many to count, too many for his liking. The boy's education was one of them. He couldn't afford to have a tutor, since, even with oaths or constant obliviating spells, the risk of somebody finding out about the child was too high - therefore he had to do it all by himself. He didn't mind to teach the Hogwarts course and was actually anticipating to help Harry learn everything about magic there was, however, teaching the basic, mundane skills like proper talking, reading and writing, math and etiquette was beyond him.

"If you want a thing done well - do it yourself," he muttered acidly to his own reflection in the glass and turned away from the window. He had learned it all by himself, nobody was there to guide him in his childhood, however, the circumstances were different then. He had been surviving in a harsh, hostile environment, while Harry lived under his protection and elf's care and wasn't going to ever find out what it is like to starve or freeze to death, to be beaten and insulted, shunned for being different. None of the ugliest, foulest nightmares were going to happen to him.

Voldemort walked over to his desk and sat down, resting his elbows on the layered map of the Ministry's levels, however, all the lines looked blurry to him, since his gaze was unfocused. He thought of Harry. On one hand he could very well force the boy into the very same horrid kind of life he had had, to motivate him to learn and develop on his own. But on the other... he felt reluctant to torture Harry so terribly. His soul had suffered enough, it wasn't fair to doom it to go through it all again, he mused. Leaning back in his chair he twirled a long lock of his hair between his fingers absentmindedly, pondering over his own feelings towards the boy.

No, he didn't want him to have an unhappy childhood, he didn't want him bitter and broken, he wanted Harry to grow up a confident, strong willed man, the one who would not fear his master, but respect and admire him. He didn't want a sycophant obligingly licking on his feet out of fear or spite, or gain, he wanted... A friend. He had never had any friends before and could very well survive without them, but he knew how much beneficial it could have been to make Harry believe that they were more than just a master and a servant, but that they were a family. Rubbing on his eyes and sighing heavily he once again bent over the plan. He didn't know how to be friendly, how to make friends - he would have to find out by trials and errors.

A ringing laughter echoed distantly in the hall, signifying that Harry had returned home. Home. This wretched place had become a home to them both, hiding them from the whole world. Laying low and rarely gathering his followers Voldemort had grown used to the quiet life away from the annoying wizards and witches and their problems. If it wasn't for Dumbledore's obsession with muggles and his desire to assimilate with them he doubted he would have ever started the war at all. It would have been most satisfying and delightful to reign over Britain, however, and he could honestly admit this to himself, it would have been most difficult and exhausting as well. Pointless. Time consuming. Unrewarding.

He couldn't kill all the muggles in the world, the mere idea seemed ridiculous, therefore he had to seclude the magic from them. But it wasn't only Britain that needed to be showed the right way, but every other country as well. It wasn't just Dumbledore he needed to eliminate but all the blind muggle-loving idiots, that propagated eternal peace and love between the two species. Wizards were, undoubtedly, superior to muggles, but the task of proving it to everybody else seemed almost impossible.

Voldemort listened in to the low noise of Harry playing around in his room and to Daedalus' chiding tone, in which the elf tried to make the boy sit down and have his lunch. He had entertained the idea of spelling his bedroom soundproof at first, but thought better of it - if something was going to happen to the child in the course of his maturing and developing he had to know about it instantly. And now, as some time had passed, he found he didn't mind the foreign sounds, they had in fact brought some illusion of life and odd comfort into this place, made it more suitable for living. Having had spent most of his long life in loneliness Voldemort realized that the boy's company was very bearable indeed. He wondered if it was going to become even enjoyable, eventually, when Harry grew up.

The door into his study opened, creaking softly, and a small face appeared in the narrow gap, watching him curiously.

"What?" he narrowed his red eyes at the boy and the door was instantly closed and only the quick steps of bare feet in the direction of the next room could be heard. It seemed that Harry was still afraid of him. Raising his eyebrows sarcastically Voldemort concentrated on the map. First things first.

xxx

"Either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives..." he murmured, scowling at the shiny glass orb, that lay innocently in his hand. "This is a rather twisted logic, since we share a soul..." Voldemort rubbed on his furrowed brow with his long fingers, scratching on the skin with long, bluish fingernails. "He was never meant to become a horcrux, I would have died that night and he would have lived, marked by me," he nodded his head slowly as he pondered over what else could these words mean. "By the time I resurrected from one of my horcruxes he would have been a grown man, a powerful wizard, trained by Dumbledore and his dogs... And now it is truly nullified."

The orb was thrown into the hearth and was instantly consumed by the flame, which roar deafened the voice of the Seer, that could be barely deciphered. He had changed their destiny by having had made that one decision that night to let Harry live and to raise him as his own. Rubbing his cold hands together Voldemort walked out of the study and into the nursery to watch the boy sleep, as he had been doing all this time. Now that he knew that he did everything right he felt a great relief washing over him in waves.

Sitting down on the edge of the mattress he looked into the small, funny face, that was turned towards the window, almost white under the cold moonlight. He was safe now, safe and invincible. Should he be killed in the future Harry would resurrect him and protect him. Voldemort tentatively reached out and covered the tiny hand with his own, sighing at its softness and warmth. Harry sighed too, no doubt sharing his emotions through their link, and snored quietly - he was so small, so fragile, it was hard to imagine that the two magical souls could reside inside him at once, that one day he would be just as mature and strong as his master was.

The Dark Lord let go of the boy and slowly rose up to leave. Now that the most important problem had been solved and he and Harry could live peacefully together, he had to come up with a plan to rescue his imprisoned servants. The more he thought of it the less the idea appealed to him, but leaving them to rot in Azkaban was going to undermine his authority and his follower's trust. Breaking into the Ministry wasn't as difficult as he had anticipated, none of the few night guards noticed him walking through the shadows, there were no wards or alarms around the prophecy and it was so easy to put a fake, empty orb in place of the real one that he had, at some point, suspected it all to be a trap. However, nothing happened, he walked out just as quickly and unseen as he walked in. Now that everybody believed that Harry Potter was dead it was highly unlikely that somebody, meaning Dumbledore, would casually pay a visit to the prophecy that had no use anymore.

Breaking into the prison was a completely different matter altogether. He could very well storm inside and turn the place to dust, but it wasn't worth wasting his power and energy so carelessly. Perhaps, if Narcissa wanted her sister to be saved so much, she and her husband could accompany him in his trip to the Azkaban isle. Satisfied with the plan he halted at the threshold and turned his head to look at the boy again - Harry's sleep was deep and sweet, undisturbed. Smiling to himself Voldemort closed the door behind him soundlessly and went into his own bedroom, thinking that he too needed a good and sweet sleep in order to gain strength for tomorrow's mission. The less predictable his actions were even to his own followers, the less there were chances to fail.

He lay awake for a long time, however, mesmerized by the light of the moon that creeped stealthily into the room and over the covers of his bed. After splitting his soul into so many pieces he noticed that sometimes his emotions and impressions were somewhat dulled, subdued, distorted even. Some had disappeared altogether. He dreaded to imagine what would it have been like if he had followed his initial plan and made seven horcruxes - he would have become completely insane, he was absolutely certain of that. Intelligent and naturally perceptive Voldemort understood that he had been born a little abnormal, for his job and his powers called for a particular set of mind and psyche, therefore he knew there was a possibility to lose his sense and reason rather easily indeed. He couldn't afford that, everything had to be under control, especially now, when he had tricked everybody and the Fate itself so smartly. Three horcruxes was more than enough.

He stretched his hand out and watched the light play on his already pale skin, turning it sickeningly grey, dead. Irritation and disinterest were the major emotions he had been experiencing lately, boredom. The only time he felt somewhat curious was when he thought of the boy and their shared future - it was a game he was very interested to play. How pleasant and fruitful would it be to raise the supposed Savior and make him see the actual truth, make him hate everything his parents and the Order fought for? A cruel smile stretched his thin, dry lips and he laughed soundlessly as he waved his hand and the black darkness fell over the Little Hangleton, as the moon stayed trapped between the sheets of glass in his window until the morning came.

xxx

"How could he have never revealed any of his plans in the meetings?" Shacklebot threw his arms in the air helplessly, staring at the dark form of Severus Snape, who stood by the window in the kitchen of Grimmauld's place and watched impassively the drops of rain run down the foggy glass.

"As you have undoubtedly noticed there were barely any meetings during these last six and a half months," the potions master sighed tiredly, not turning to look at the members of the Order, who were boring their eyes in the back of his head. "I have no idea what is the cause of the Dark Lord's sudden change, perhaps, he is waiting for the right time to strike again... It is difficult to base my assumptions on the lack of any kind of information whatsoever. Nobody knows anything, even Malfoy."

"Has he required any more potions from you, does he look sick or weak still?" Dumbledore asked thoughtfully, frowning at the photograph of the ten dead Aurors, that took most of the front page of the Daily Prophet. The huge letters of the headline screamed soundlessly at him 'HE-WHO-MUST-NOT-BE-NAMED BREAKS INTO AZKABAN'.

"No, he never asked for any of the potions ever again. I believe he brews everything by himself now," Severus shook his head and finally looked back at the Headmaster. "He has taken a house-elf in, ordered Malfoy to spare one of his own. What for he never said, however, everybody noticed that he stopped socializing. He used to dine with some of us from time to time, paying unexpected visits, examining the manors, watching the way his most trusted followers live, meeting their families. He doesn't do this anymore, stays in his own house isolated from the whole world."

"His paranoia has probably worsened," Dumbledore suggested, folding his hands and resting them on the table before him. "Of course he needs a house-elf now to take care of his basic needs. And there is no way to know what is he plotting?"

"None," the potions master said gravely and lowered himself onto the wooden chair, that stood aside from everybody else present. "It seems as if he doesn't trust any of us anymore, as if he... As if he is bored with the whole idea of having us as his followers," he shrugged his shoulders irritably, confused by the notion. "He hadn't even asked of your plans the last time we met. Barely talked to me at all."

"Is he suspecting you?" Shacklebot leaned forward, looking at the dark wizard intently.

Severus shook his head negatively and pushed his tangled, oily hair back, sighing again. "When the Dark Lord suspects he tortures you and kills you just to be sure that he hasn't missed anything. As far as I understand he is simply not interested anymore."

"This can mean only one thing," the headmaster nodded his head sadly, twisting his lips in sorrow and exhaustion, "That he has become immortal as he had been planning to all these years. And now that he is not afraid of death he has all the time in the world to plot and execute his plans just when it is most beneficial for him."

A long silence fell after his words and everybody stared helplessly at the newspapers scattered all over the table before them. It was Moody whose voice suddenly broke the tension, "Hasn't that old fly Trelawney made up another prophecy yet? Would have been very convenient."

"Alastor, you know very well that she can't make them up," Dumbledore chided him absentmindedly, while keeping his pale blue eyes trained on the form of the potions master, who sat quietly, immersed in his own thoughts.

He couldn't decide what was killing him worse: the fact that Harry Potter died because of his mistake or the fact that he had failed Severus so horribly when the man came to him for help, ready to give up everything for his only wish to save Lily. Old and useless that was how he felt now and he knew that this was exactly what Voldemort wanted to achieve - the dark warlock wished to drown them all in devastation and hopelessness, regret, that he himself was incapable of feeling.

"But what do we do now?" Sirius asked, tearing his eyes off of the photograph of his sister grimacing at him from the holding cell.

"As much as it pains me to admit that: I don't know," the headmaster looked up at his friends, who watched him worriedly. "He is absolutely unpredictable now and we will have to be constantly vigilant and wait for him to make another move. Severus," he addressed the wizard and waited for the black eyes to lock with his, "Try to find out where are all the escapees and the wanted Death Eaters are hiding. It is the least we can do now."

"I will, Albus," Severus promised, however, the doubt was evident in his averted gaze.

"Perhaps, now that he is not interested in your servitude and espionage, you could try and get closer to him, talk him into disclosing some of his plans?" Minerva offered hesitantly, looking at her young colleague sorrowfully.

Only yesterday, it seemed, she saw him run late into her class, covered in glue and chicken feathers, embarrassed and angry, and she let him transfigure James Potter into a turkey for his unkind prank. Now the latter was dead, while the former looked like an old man, broken and hollow, scarred too deeply to ever be healed again. They all were so young, so horribly young and everything that happened to them was so unfair. The tears streamed down her face and she didn't try to hide them. Severus, James, Lily, Peter, Alice, Frank... they were supposed to be the future of the new era, not the ghosts of the violent, frightening war.

A crooked smile was Severus' answer. "I will try, of course, professor." He still couldn't call her by the name, still seeing her as his teacher, not a comrade. "However, I can't promise any results, can't promise I will return alive for that matter."

"Do you know where his house is situated?" Dumbledore suddenly asked and at the man's perplexed expression elaborated, "I wonder if I could force him into an open confrontation. To at least have an understanding of how powerful he is now after all the experiments he had performed on himself."

"You can't go there alone!" Sirius exclaimed, crumpling the newspapers in his hands vehemently. "It's too dangerous!"

"We will see about that," the headmaster raised a placating hand and turned to the potions master, who was scowling at his own shoes.

"I am afraid I don't know, Albus, we have never been outside, there are windows in the hall where we meet, but they look at the forest, nothing else. He had warded his manor in such fashion that there are only two rooms we are allowed to enter and apparate to, even the grounds are closed to us."

"Is the manor old, muggle looking inside? I might have an idea what could it be," Dumbledore drawled, stroking his beard.

Severus shook his head helplessly, "I can't say, what I have seen is rather old and dusty, but to label it as muggle would be wrong, as it would be to label it magical. He has certainly considered everything to the smallest detail."

"He is very careful, I have expected him to act impulsively as he often used to in the past," the headmaster creased his brow and clicked his tongue, disappointed. "But he seems to have finally grown up and gotten control over his anger and desire for vengeance... What in the Merlin's name is he plotting?"

The question was as rhetorical as it was desperate. Nobody could answer it.

xxx