Disclaimer:

I do not own Harry Potter. I do not own Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them. I do not own anything related to J. K. Rowling in general, or Harry Potter specifically. Not a single DVD of the Harry Potter movies.

The-Boy-Who-Didn't

Chapter One

The End of a War

By The Shroud

A/N:

The first chapter of a new work. Please review on whatever you can, suggestions, ideas, etc. This story would have explored an idea I had, of what would happen if Harry had died. But then I realized it wasn't different enough. So I created a ton of AU elements, and be assured that any difference between this and canon is not an oversight. Enjoy!

Evening, 1981

Godric's Hallow

His cloaked figure, that of Lord Voldemort, approached a house, where, according to prophecy, one who may have the power to 'vanquish' him resided. When using this appearance, he looked very gaunt and bony, his fingers like claws, lacking any skin pigment, rather tall, seven and a half feet about, with the 'whites' of his eyes red-orange, as though they were bloodshot with the red and white interchanged, his iris black as his pupils. He remembered his birth.

He had been born on December 31. The day before the new year. The midnight before the dawn. The darkness that preceded the light. He supposed it was poetic, now that he had chosen a path to carve out, one way or the other, in gold, or in blood.

After rising wards of his own to prevent escape, he unraveled the existing wards upon the house within minutes, although alerting those within and sacrificing stealth for speed, and burst into the hall. The mother, carrying the boy, had just ran upstairs, and the father remained to give them a few more seconds. Wandless, the father was defeated swiftly with a killing curse of Lord Voldemort. He then proceeded upstairs, remembering his own upbringing.

What was not poetic had been living in the orphanage. Every person attempted at every possible moment to exert their power over him. The adults, the other children, and so would the parents that came to look, even if in a different form. It still had two benefits. First, that he had all the time possible to think, and think he did. Second, that it taught him something important about power and morality. That there was no good, no evil, merely those who had power... and those who were too weak to seek it. Thus, for so long, he had sought it. Only to realize... he had it all along. He merely needed to apply it.

Upstairs, finding a room barricaded with furniture, he forced his way in. There, he found them, the mother guarding her son's cot. She begged him to spare the boy for her own life. Sentiment. An attachment without benefit. Both the mother and the boy were potential threats to him, and there was nothing to be gained from sparing them. Except, his servant had chosen, as his favor for assisting the Dark Lord, to have the mother given a choice. More sentiment. He had never cared for it.

He had known he was different, he had known he was special. Always, he knew there was something. He once thought it was just his imagination, or that he had no interest in the vile blinder that was sentiment. With these abilities, he now knew what else. He could make things move, without the faintest touch. He could make animals do what he wanted, without the slightest training. He could hurt people, when they annoyed him. He finally had something to rely upon. He had attained it through experimentation to the limits, pushing every boundary.

But it had been what his servant chose. Three times, he insisted that she move aside. The third time, he then struck her down with the same curse used on her husband. He moved forth, approaching the child, who was on the verge of crying, and yet looked into his eyes almost bravely. Lord Voldemort considered the use of a horcrux to possibly ensure victory whether the child killed him or he killed the child, but it had been dangerous enough the first time, and would likely have more unpredictable effects than usual for soul magic if part of a prophecy. No, the form of soul magic in a prophecy was dangerous enough without that of horcruxes. He could not risk any waste of time, for others would come, likely sent by Dumbledore. He could not afford to delay, if the prophecy were true. It referred to him as simply 'the Dark Lord', though his title in full was 'Lord Voldemort.' He remembered when and why he chose it.

But though he had power, he wanted to give it a name, so he understood that it was not him, it was just a tool he could wield. An aspect of himself, not to be attached to, any more than he was attached to the orphanage. He was writing his name one day, when the idea of an anagram struck him. And he found such an anagram. It was fitting... his full name became the sentence, "I am Lord Voldemort." 'Vol de mort', flight of death, in French, as he had forced himself to learn, with many other things, using all his time. Both escaping death, and spreading death.

He rose his wand, and fired a third killing curse that night, to defeat the protection wards he instinctively sensed, without expecting to use enough soul magic to be entirely unpredictable combined with the prophecy. But in his haste, he missed that both the curse and the wards were also forms of soul magic, if utilized in different manners. Combining the soul magic involved in said sacrificial protection wards, killing curse, the prophecy, and the boy's core, a feedback loop of sorts ensued. The magic of the sacrificial protection wards, feeding upon the child's core, the magic of the prophecy, and the core of Lord Voldemort, began to increase uncontrollably, attempting to stop the killing curse through any means it could. Lord Voldemort, realizing that the wards themselves were also soul magic, and that a feedback loop started, attempted and failed to stop the drain on his magic. No matter, he had a horcrux. He quickly decided to feed into it, either to become more powerful, stop it in a controlled manner, or end it fatally before anyone came, sensed the soul magic, and started guessing of its reason, potentially discovering that he had a horcrux. His capability of reaching a quick decision had always been great.

He could be great. But greatness inspires envy, envy engenders spite, and spite spawns lies. But lying about a lie spawns the truth. Could he not live by two names, his greatness in the form of Lord Voldemort, spreading lies, and his knowledge in the form of Tom Riddle? But did he really want to be Riddle, the orphan?

Eventually, the loop broke, as did the magic of the wards, curse, and prophecy, overloaded beyond reason. The residual excess magic did not dissipate enough, and caused a small explosion of pure energy, burning the nearby surroundings within an instant. Two more people had died that night, but the one who did not stay dead was not Harry Potter.

Morning, One day after the Dark Lord's death, 1981

A motorcycle flew down at terrifying speeds, slowing to a halt. The rider, sent by his former Headmaster, approached the ruin of a house, running desperately. He frantically unlocked and opened the door, with his wand out to protect himself or heal any survivors.

In the hall, he found his best friend, James Potter, lying dead, drawing out a sob of emotion. He continued upstairs, eyes full of tears, finding James' wife Lily Evans Potter, a wand charred to a crisp by a powerful explosion, and the bodies of Voldemort and James' and Lily's son, Harry, each burnt almost beyond recognition by some explosion, but not quite.

He, Sirius Black, fell to his knees, and did the only thing he could think of, with the last shreds of hope he had falling away. He wept, for James, Lily, and Harry, and for his failure to be there when he was needed most, his failure to realize the truth about the rat, his failure to accept one burden, the burden of being secret keeper, for what felt to be his cowardice, his pride, and his stupidity, blaming himself.

Evening, Two days after the Dark Lord's death, 1981

Order of the Phoenix Headquarters

"Is it true, Albus? Lily, James, and Harry... are dead?" Minerva, his deputy headmistress, asked morosely. He remembered the first day he met Tom, when, if not innocent, he was still simply a child.

He had went into the orphanage. The person working there spoke harshly of the potential student, Riddle. It was likely a lie; muggles and wizards all too often failed to get along even subconsciously, he would know, after it caused his sister to develop an obscurus.

The Order of the Phoenix had been summoned, and the meeting had just started. He, Albus Dumbledore, responded solemnly, "Yes, they were betrayed by their secret keeper, Peter Pettigrew, who the Ministry is searching for now. Somehow, possibly due to failed sacrificial protections, when Voldemort killed their son, there was a magical backlash, and he too appears to have died," withholding his suspicions of Tom's survival, trying to prevent a worse air of despair. Tom had always been capable of many things, as he had known the first day they met.

He walked into Tom's room. From that moment, just by looking around, he could tell Tom was a suspicious child, further deepening his own worries. From Tom's manner of speech, and what he spoke, this was only confirmed more. Tom was intelligent, having already guessed at possibly being a wizard, clearly making various deductions, though without speaking any out loud, and remarkably capable in magic without a wand.

Unfortunately, he could not inform the Ministry of anything more than suspicions that Peter was an animagus, to avoid revealing that Sirius was unregistered, or to draw attention to the fact that Remus was a werewolf. Claiming Peter learned it as a party trick would not only imply James, Sirius, and Remus knew and obstructed the law, but be implausible, as Peter was not capable enough to do so. Animagus transformations were complicated, not simply flashy and impressive. He remembered a flashy spell he had used to attract Tom's attention.

He chose a flashy, impressive spell, for that was the kind Tom was in awe of, not the party trick style generally used. He had noticed Tom was stealing, and so assured him he wouldn't have to steal at Hogwarts, a variety dishes could be provided to him at a moment's notice when he was hungry.

With the last statement, a glimmer of hope began to shine softly in the eyes of many sitting there. "Does that mean the war is over?" asked one of the younger recruits hopefully. He had seen that same glimmer of hope when he made that promise to Tom.

He was able to help Tom on a variety of things, the two quickly forming a bond, even becoming close like a father and a son, causing him to promise Tom he would attempt to get him out of the orphanage. When he got back, he essentially pleaded with the headmaster at the time, Armando Dippet, to find a way to legally move Tom somewhere safe. At the time, he thought Tom was muggleborn, so any test of blood was not thought of. Dippet said no, and so Dumbledore watched as Tom was forced to stay at the orphanage, year after year.

"Is the war is over, and you get to go home, just 'cause the leader is dead? His Death Eaters are still on the loose." snarled Alastor. Tom had snarled in a similarly sarcastic manner the day before he had to go back.

Tom blamed him, and saw it as a betrayal, remaining cold and distant ever since. Had he not given him that false hope, had he not gotten so close, had he kept searching anyway, had he been more selfish and told Tom the reason why, rather than let Tom feel it was a betrayal because he wanted to be professional and not go against the headmaster... maybe some of this could have been avoided, much as he could not have known, much as Tom already had darkness in his heart.

Albus responded gently, "Yes, Alastor is correct. We must continue to be vigilant. I already have suspicions they plan for a new attack, upon the Longbottoms." Pausing once everyone straightened up at the news, he commanded, "Rather than risk the Fidelius, it would be best for Alastor, Elphias, and Dedalus to protect them over the course of the next months."

Evening, late 1981

Alastor reported bitterly, "Four Death Eaters, the Lestranges and Crouch Jr., attacked Longbottom Manor at midnight yesterday. They seemed to think that the Longbottoms knew what happened to Voldemort. Longbo- Frank, refused to stay inside, going out to defend against them. He was hit by a dark curse sent by Bellatrix, but not before he got Rodolphus, falling in the line of duty. Bellatrix, Barty, and Rabastan have been captured, and are going on trial before the Ministry. As for the other Death Eaters, so far they've all either gone into hiding, or been caught and either imprisoned or not, if they used some fancy language, claimed Imperius or other and gave a nice lining to the Minister's pocket. The corrupt bastard."

He, Albus, nodded sagely, and stated, "Then, with all of this, it appears that the war is over."

Albania

Afternoon, Over Nine and a Half years since the Dark Lord's death, Middle of 1991

He walked through the forest, searching for the Dark Lord, to capture and perhaps even learn from him. He heard a twig snap behind him, and turned around abruptly in fright. A wraith-like figure spoke, "Hello, Quirinus. You shall serve a crucial purpose for me now." He fell to the ground, unconscious for having fainted in fright.

A/N:

And that concludes the first chapter of The-Boy-Who-Didn't. This story will focus mainly on the war between Dumbledore and Voldemort.