Chapter Text
Saturday, 31st October
The night was wet and windy, the sky broiling with black clouds that threatened to burst at any moment. The square lay slick with rain, its cobblestones gleaming under the jaundiced glow of streetlamps.
Two children waddled across the square dressed as pumpkins, their tiny boots splashing through puddles as they giggled and shrieked in innocent delight. The shop windows around them were plastered in cheap decorations: cardboard bats, paper spiders, plastic skeletons dancing on strings. All the tawdry Muggle trappings of a world that no longer believed in monsters.
But one walked among them now.
Voldemort moved like smoke - gliding, not walking - his cloak trailing behind him like a shadow. A sense of purpose surged through him with every silent step. He was not angry. No, anger was the domain of the weak, of those ruled by passion and fear. What he felt was something purer - something cleaner. Triumph. Cold and perfect as the edge of a blade. He had waited for this moment, had sculpted the pieces into place with the finesse of a master.
And now the endgame was upon him.
“Nice costume, mister!”
The boy’s voice rang out unexpectedly, high and bright, piercing the fog of his thoughts. A child - freckled, painted cheeks smeared with fake blood - looked up at him with naive cheer. Then he drew near enough to glimpse beneath the hood. His smile faltered. His painted face paled. Terror bloomed in his wide eyes. And then the boy was gone, sprinting back to his mother in silence, as if noise might invite pursuit.
Voldemort's pale fingers brushed against the wand hidden beneath his robes.
One movement. One whisper of a curse, and the child would never reach his mother. But… unnecessary. Quite unnecessary. Tonight’s magic was meant for worthier prey.
He turned down a narrow lane where shadows pressed in close, the wind howling like a warning he did not heed. And then he saw it - the house. So unassuming in its structure, so deceptively quaint. But he felt the wards falter the moment he stepped closer. The Fidelius charm was broken, though the occupants did not yet know it. Their trust had been their undoing.
He made less sound than the dead leaves slithering along the pavement as he drew level with the dark hedge. They hadn’t even drawn the curtains.
Fools.
Inside, the sitting room glowed warm and golden. The tall, black-haired man in glasses was conjuring puffs of colourful smoke from his wand. They danced through the air, twisting into playful shapes for the delight of a small, black-haired boy in blue pyjamas, who laughed and clapped and tried to catch the shapes with pudgy, eager fingers.
A door opened and the mother entered, saying words he could not hear, her long, dark-red hair falling over her face. Now the father scooped up the son and handed him to the mother. He threw his wand carelessly on the sofa and stretched, yawning.
Voldemort's eyes narrowed. They were happy. Unguarded. Easy pickings for the likes of him.
The gate creaked a little as he pushed it open, but they did not hear. His white hand pulled out the wand beneath his cloak and pointed it at the door, which exploded open. He was over the threshold as James came sprinting into the hall. It was easy, too easy; he had not even picked up his wand.
“Lily, take Harry and go! It’s him! Go! Run! I’ll hold him off!”
Hold him off, without a wand in his hand?
Voldemort laughed, the sound cold and hollow as a crypt. “Avada Kedavra!”
The green light filled the cramped hallway, it lit the pram pushed against the wall, it made the bannisters glare like lightning rods, and James Potter fell like a marionette whose strings had been cut.
From upstairs: a scream.
He climbed the stairs slowly, savouring the sound of her panic, the pathetic scraping of furniture being piled against the nursery door. It would not help her. She had no wand. No hope. How stupid they were, and how trusting, thinking that their safety lay in friends, that weapons could be discarded even for a moment. She was trapped - but as long as she was sensible, she, at least, had nothing to fear.
He forced the door open, cast aside the chair and boxes hastily piled against it with one lazy wave of his wand, and there she stood, the child in her arms.
At the sight of him, she dropped her son into the crib behind her and threw her arms wide, as if this would help, as if, in shielding him from sight, she hoped to be chosen instead.
“Not Harry, not Harry, please not Harry!”
“Stand aside, you silly girl… stand aside, now”.
Lily Potter did not plead a second time.
Instead, she stood there, her arms lowering slowly, like a puppet untangled, and then, after a brief moment of hesitation, she took one step to the side. Just one. Just enough to reveal the child in the crib behind her.
Voldemort blinked.
Her face was blank. Not cold, not defiant - just empty. As though the life had already drained from her, as though she had given up on everything, not just her husband, not just the child sitting quietly behind her, but the war, the world, herself.
She did not plead again.
No last protest. No final words of love. No desperate leap to shield the child. Just that strange, unnerving blankness that stretched across her face like frost - cold, still, silent. Her eyes were dull and unfocused, not even flicking toward her son. She had already surrendered in all the ways that mattered.
Voldemort stared at her.
This was not what he had expected.
He had killed many. Mothers, fathers, children. But they always begged. Screamed. Bargained. Even when they knew it was futile, they died clinging to the illusion that they mattered. But this… this was different. Almost insulting, really.
His wand hovered between them, fingers tightening slightly.
“... Is this some sort of trick?” he asked softly.
“No". Her voice was flat, lifeless. “I’m sick of hiding. You’ve already killed James… There’s nothing left to fight for”.
He studied her closely now. She didn’t look at the boy. Not once. Not even for a final glance.
“There is the child” he said, tilting his head in curiosity.
She blinked, not quite meeting his eyes. “I’m young… I can always have more children if I ever want to... If you let me live, then… then you can have him”.
Time stilled.
The silence was so deep it seemed to suck the sound from the world. The wind no longer howled. Even the house itself felt as though it were holding its breath.
Voldemort stared.
In all his years, all his killings, he had never encountered this. Not this level of indifference, this… vacancy. As though she had stepped outside her body and left behind only a shell. Lily Potter didn’t look worried or scared - neither for herself nor her child. She wasn’t brimming with self-righteousness or defiance or love, she was just… blank. Dispassionate. Apathetic, even.
She was quite young to have a child, Voldemort mused, and far too young to get married and start a family, especially during the middle of a war - far too young to even be in the middle of a war.
He wondered, distantly, if the child was an accident, a mistake in more ways than one. His own mother had died to give him life, and now this mother wasn’t even putting up so much as an argument, let alone a fight…
Voldemort’s lip curled - not in amusement, but disgust. His own mother had died for him. Pathetic, yes, sentimental and foolish - but she had chosen to die so that he could live. But as for Lily Potter? As for this mother? She wasn’t even choosing to care.
He turned his wand on the infant in the crib and watched her carefully.
She didn’t move. Her gaze didn’t flicker. There was no gasp, no tears, no fury. Just stillness.
He felt something twist inside him.
Not pity.
Contempt.
Suddenly - impulsively - he snapped his wand to her. “Stupefy!”
Her eyes widened for the first time - a flicker of shock - and then she crumpled against the wall, unconscious.
Voldemort exhaled.
He had promised Severus to let her live after all, and she wouldn’t be much of a threat in the future if she had the same constitution as Wormtail.
“Gryffindors” he muttered in disgust, “How utterly pathetic”.
Then, silence again, before the faint rustle of cloth as he stepped toward the crib. The child stared up at him. No wailing. No fear. Just wide green eyes - startlingly like hers - fixed on his pale, inhuman face.
Perhaps even at this age, he realised that Voldemort wouldn’t hesitate to harm him should he kick up a fuss - or, perhaps, he’d finally realised that his mother’s love was conditional.
Voldemort raised his wand, and for one brief, split-second moment… he hesitated.
Not out of mercy - of course not! - but out of… uncertainty.
Why wasn’t he crying?
His grip tightened. The prophecy whispered in his memory, dark and urgent.
The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches, born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies…
This was the child. The one foretold. The one that would be his downfall. A mere, defenceless, unloved babe…
He raised his wand once more.
He could not afford to hesitate.
“Avada Kedavra!”
There was a flash of green, a wave of pain, and a deafening explosion.
Voldemort was hurled backwards as if struck by some ancient, vengeful god. The Killing curse rebounded with a force beyond comprehension - raw, wild, alive. A scream tore from his throat, animal and furious, as something inside him had torn loose. It wasn’t just physical. It was deeper than that - spiritual, magical, foundational. As though reality itself had turned on him.
He slammed into the far wall with a sickening crack. His skull struck stone. Bones jarred. His wand flew from his hand, skittering across the floor like a dying insect. The air was ripped from his lungs. His cloak smoked and sizzled where the magic had caught him, the fabric fraying, curling at the edges like burned paper.
Voldemort groaned, low and guttural, dragging himself upright along the ruined wall. His fingers scrabbled against the cracked plaster, his breathing shallow and broken. His heart thundered wildly in his chest, not from fear, but from rage and disbelief.
What in Salazar’s name had just happened?!
His ears were ringing, his vision was blurry, and there was an awful, unsteady dizziness in his head that caused him to stagger as he stumbled back to his feet, hands bracing himself against the wall as he tried desperately to figure out just what the hell-
The room around him was unrecognisable.
One wall had cracked from floor to ceiling, the plaster buckled and bleeding dust. Chunks of it littered the floor. The curtains had caught fire and were still smouldering, the air choked with ash and smoke. A framed picture on the opposite wall - some quaint, smiling photograph of the Potters on a picnic - had shattered into a hundred jagged shards, glinting on the ground like cursed snowflakes.
A bookshelf had toppled onto its side, spilling battered picture books and stuffed animals across the floor in chaotic, surreal contrast. A rocking chair - painted white and half-burnt - lay on its side, one leg snapped clean off. The very walls pulsed faintly with residual magic, scarred and humming, as though the house itself was groaning in protest at the sorcery it had just been forced to contain.
He staggered forward a step, then another, his feet crunching on glass and debris. His limbs felt uncoordinated, disconnected from his will. His eyes - red and unfocused - scanned the devastation, then snapped to the crib.
The crib.
The child.
Alive.
It gave a small cry now - belated, soft, indignant - but not a scream of fear or terror or anguish. Just… discomfort. Shock. Confusion.
Voldemort could relate.
Blood trickled from the baby’s forehead, running down his face in narrow rivulets, catching the dim, greenish glow still flickering from the walls. A lightning-bolt wound, fresh and red, was burned into his flesh like a brand.
Those same green eyes stared up at Voldemort with something almost disturbingly calm. He did not flinch. Did not cower. Magic shimmered faintly around him, like heat rising from sun-baked stone.
And Voldemort - Lord Voldemort, the most feared Dark wizard in a century - stared back, frozen. His breath came in shallow gasps. He felt something strange, unfamiliar and alien coiling in his chest. He had never seen anything like this.
His hands trembled as he pressed them against his chest, searching - desperate - for some clue, some answer to what had just happened. But his heart was beating. His body was intact. And yet… something had been broken. Some deep core of himself fractured in a way that could not be undone.
He fell to his knees, unseeing, breath rasping through his teeth. His mind raced, but every thought was jagged, scattered, broken - like the glass underfoot.
The Killing curse never failed.
It was impossible.
Ad yet - here he was.
The child of prophecy. Marked. Bloodied. But alive.
And he was the child of prophecy - Voldemort was now sure of that. They were the exact opposite in every way. Winter and summer. Slytherin and Gryffindor. Loved and unloved by their own mothers… Surely such a child, a mere babe strong enough to be his equal, deserved a proper upbringing? A proper mother - one who would love him and care for him until her dying breath, just as Voldemort’s mother had done for him?
He rose unsteadily, each movement slow, deliberate. The scorched hem of his cloak dragged across the floor, whispering over soot and ash. As he stepped closer to the crib, the flickering magical residue curled around his boots like mist, reacting to him, repelling him. The room itself now seemed unwilling to accept his presence.
But the child did not move.
The baby’s eyes - those Killing curse coloured eyes, far too large for his face - watched him with unnerving calm. There was no flicker of fear, no reaching out for a mother who had not so much as looked back. There was only… awareness.
The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches...
He had tried to kill him. Had used the most final, most ancient curse known to their kind. It had rebounded. Backfired. And now… Voldemort understood.
This child was not his end.
He was his beginning.
Something unknown stirred within him - an idea, uncoiling in the dark corners of his brilliant, monstrous mind. The prophecy did not say that the child must destroy him - only that he had the power to do so… but what if that power could be claimed? Redirected? Twisted, shaped, moulded into something else - into something greater?
Voldemort approached the crib once more, his movements slower now, almost reverent. His long white fingers hovered over the rail, then curled beneath the child’s small arms. He lifted him carefully, awkwardly. The child dangled for a moment, then settled against his chest, warm and solid and far too quiet.
Harry Potter stared up at Voldemort with those green, green eyes. Still watching. Still unafraid - and in that moment, that choice came easily.
He would not kill this child; he would use him.
Power like that must not be wasted, and the boy was going to be a powerful wizard someday - he’d just survived the Killing curse! And besides, “vanquish” had many meanings, after all - overcome, subdue, defeat, subjugate, triumph over… It did not always mean certain death.
Voldemort would be a fool if he didn’t use this power to his advantage.
He had already marked the boy as his equal, after all, watching in twisted amusement as the blood dripped down the disgruntled baby’s face, so wasn’t it only right to give him an upbringing worthy of that highest honour?
The house groaned around them, the wind outside howling through shattered glass like a mourning call. The roof above had begun to crack; he could feel the supporting beams buckling. Magic had torn through the house like a storm. It would not hold much longer.
No matter.
He had what he came for.
Voldemort glanced once more at Lily Potter’s still form. There was no flicker of guilt, no second thought. Let her live, as he’d promised Severus. Let her wake to a world without her husband or her child. Let her see what the price of indifference truly was.
He would ensure that the boy was raised the right way - the way that Voldemort should have been raised himself - raised by a loyal follower, someone within his inner circle whom he could trust. Narcissa, perhaps, although she’d recently given birth to the Malfoy heir, so, perhaps… her sister? Bellatrix was one of his most loyal devotees, and he knew she would spoil the child rotten if he ordered her to - might even grow to love the babe as her own.
Yes, Voldemort decided, that was exactly what he’d do. He would let the boy grow. Let him learn. Let him be shaped in the image of power, not weakness. Let the boy worship him instead of Dumbledore. And when the time came, Voldemort would not fall - he would rise, with Harry Potter and his untameable power at his side.
Cradling the child awkwardly in one arm, he bent down and retrieved his wand from the dust and rubble. The boy still stared up at him. He was still silent. His eyes were still the colour of the Killing curse.
“You belong to me now” Voldemort whispered.
And with a crack like thunder, he turned on the spot, vanishing into the night, and the house was silent once more.
The night was still wet and vicious, the wind raking its claws against rooftops and gutters like a beast denied entry. Rain slashed sideways across the moors, turning the Lestrange Manor’s long gravel driveway into a glistening black ribbon. Thunder snarled far off, low and constant, as though the sky itself was holding its breath.
The child was screeching.
Voldemort didn’t blame him. Not tonight. The storm was bitter, the air laced with cold so sharp it seemed to whistle straight through his robes. The boy was shivering despite the Warming charms Voldemort had layered across him, his little fists balled at his sides, his breath coming in harsh, hiccupping gasps, blood still smearing his face.
A more sentimental man might have felt sympathy. Voldemort merely wondered, idly, if it was safe to cast the Stunning spell on a one-year-old.
Lestrange Manor was tall and severe, its windows like watching eyes. He did not knock - the wards would have detected his presence immediately and informed the master of the house. Instead, he waited on the doorstep, black robes swishing in the wind, the infant wailing in his arms. The great oaken doors creaked open not thirty seconds later.
Rodolphus stood there, hair tousled, dressing gown clutched closed over his chest, wand already raised - but his expression shifted instantly when he saw who had come calling.
“My lord” he breathed, stepping aside without hesitation, “Please, come in”.
“I trust that I have not come at a bad time?” Voldemort said, sweeping inside like a winter gust.
“Of course not, my lord”. Bellatrix’s voice floated from the staircase. She was descending with practised grace, her hair loose, eyes sharp despite the hour. “You are always welcome in our home”.
Her gaze drifted briefly to the child in his arms. Her lips parted slightly in shock, in surprise. But she said nothing, merely stepped forward and gestured them toward the drawing room.
They did not question his sudden appearance. They did not dare.
The manor was warm and dimly lit, thick tapestries fluttering in the wind’s wake. A fire snapped hungrily in the grate, and Rodolphus bent to stoke it as Voldemort entered the room and lowered the child - not gently, but not cruelly - onto the thick rug in front of the fireplace.
The cries had faded now to hiccups and soft, uncertain whimpers.
Bellatrix approached him with care - after casting a quick, questioning look at her lord, of course, who nodded his assent. She knelt before the child, her wand moving with elegant precision to remove the blood from his forehead. A faint flash and a murmured word, and the lightning-shaped wound was left raw but clean.
Then, with another flick of her wand, she transformed one of the stacked logs in front of the fireplace into a green plush dragon. It flapped its wings, coiled with a puff of steam, and nuzzled its way into the child’s chubby hand. He grasped it at once, his tears vanishing, gurgling in delight.
Voldemort watched her with narrowed eyes… and the corner of his mouth twitched upward.
Perhaps she could be a worthy mother yet.
They sat together, the three of them, in high-backed chairs around the fireplace. The boy remained on the rug, his new toy clutched in his fingers, eyes wide and confused but calm once more.
After calling for a house-elf, Bellatrix poured them tea. Rodolphus said nothing but sat stiffly next to his wife, as if afraid to even breathe too loudly in this strange, surreal moment. When Voldemort finally spoke, his voice was low and steady.
“You may be wondering” he said, cradling the teacup between long white fingers, “why I have brought you a child in the middle of the night”.
Neither of them replied.
“This” he continued, nodding once toward the infant, “is Harry Potter. The son of James Potter, now deceased, and Lily Potter, a mudblood not worth speaking of… I was recently told of a prophecy predicting the birth of a child foretold to vanquish me. This is that child”.
Bellatrix’s eyes sharpened instantly. “Harry Potter, my lord? He is the one who-”
“Yes” he said simply, “Born to those who thrice defied me. Born as the seventh month dies. This… mere infant is meant to be my downfall… or so the prophecy claims”.
Roldolphus’s hand flew to his wand holster, his dark eyes darting between the boy and his master, as if expecting to receive orders to kill the baby at any moment.
“And yet” Voldemort said, almost conversationally, “when I visited the Potters tonight and cast the curse to kill him… it rebounded”.
He let the words hang, weighty and final. Bellatrix’s hands tightened around her cup, but her voice was even when she spoke.
“He survived the Killing curse?”
“He did more than survive it. He destroyed half of the house” he replied wryly, “I have yet to determine why, and how, such a thing was possible, but for the moment, my theory is whatever Harry Potter’s so-called ‘power’ is, it somehow managed to protect him… According to Albus Dumbledore, this child is a weapon - one he intends to use to destroy me”.
The fire crackled, the shadows in the corners of the room growing larger with every word.
“But weapons” he said, gracefully setting his empty teacup aside, “can be reforged”.
Bellatrix’s breath hitched - just once. Rodolphus was utterly still. In front of them, the baby continued to gurgle at the toy dragon that was now flying laps around his head.
“I have therefore decided that I will not kill him” Voldemort finished smoothly, “Not yet. Perhaps not ever. I wish him to be raised with our values, our truths. Moulded with care. Taught to use whatever power lies buried in him, not against us, but for us… And I have chosen you to raise him”.
Roldophus reached out, grabbing his wife’s hand and squeezing it tight as her eyes gleamed with unshed tears. He knew how she must be feeling right now, but he couldn’t - he wouldn’t - risk her being destroyed by this should their lord change his mind at a later date.
“My lord…” he started cautiously, “Are you certain you wish to give him to-”
“Do not insult me with doubt!” Voldemort snapped, “Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy have only just had a child themselves - they have more than enough to manage - and you two are the only other of my followers that I would entrust with a child of such… potential. You will raise him well. Teach him magic, obedience, discipline. Teach him our ways... I expect nothing less than brilliance from the boy... I expect him to be nothing less than my equal”.
Bellatrix could hardly breathe. She and Rodolphus had been trying for a child for over a decade now - healers, potions, rituals, all of it in vain. Her heart positively ached with the emptiness of it, but now… now… her lord had gifted them this.
A child of prophecy.
A child of power.
A child chosen for them not just by fate, but by the Dark Lord himself.
Her fingers trembled as she let go of her husband’s hand and slowly, delicately, reached for the baby, lifting him gently into her lap. He nestled there, heavy and warm and fragile, peering up at her with huge death-coloured eyes and a mark - her lord’s mark - on his forehead.
“We will raise him well, my lord” she whispered, a catch in her voice, “He will be our son… and one day, he will be your greatest soldier”.
Voldemort nodded once. “See to it that he is”.
Then he rose, black robes whispering around his ankles, and disappeared into the dark of the night. Behind him, the boy of prophecy slept curled up in the lap of a woman who would love him as fiercely as she worshipped the one who had given him to her.
The fire burned on. The storm howled louder. And deep in the Department of Mysteries, a shiny glass orb cracked in two.