Disclaimer: I do not own anything Harry Potter. I don't really own anything at all. I think maybe I could lay legal claim to everything in my room, but I don't even own this computer.
Even the ownership of my cat is debateable. It was my money, but I was 14. So who knows.
I bet I won't get the bold/underline/italics to work. For sure. Stupid notepad. Oh well, live with it.
SFTDSFTDSFTDSFTDSFTDSFTDSFTD
The year was 2012.
It was, approximately, twelve years, eleven months, twenty-eight days, sixteen hours, five minutes, and thirty-seven seconds since the downfall of the British Ministry of Magic.
It was also twelve years, eleven months, twenty-nine days, fifteen hours, thirty minutes, and two seconds since the downfall of the Order of the Phoenix.
And, lastly, it was twelve years, eleven months, twenty-nine days, fifteen hours, thirty- b five /b minutes, and twenty-three seconds since the defeat, and finally capture of, Harry Potter by the Dark Lord Voldemort.
Harry Potter, as he had spent the last twelve years or so of his life, was kneeling to the side of the Dark Lord's feet. His hands were dangling down freely. He was not chained. He was not beaten. He was not broken. He was, in all sense of the words, free to leave any time he wished.
But of course, there was a sort of... stipulation.
The muggle world, upon hearing the name "Harry Potter" would break out into whispers. Whispers were no more frequent than in a small town called Surrey in the middle of Britain. A town that had gained much publicity in recent years.
Because that was where Harry Potter grew up.
"A horrible boy." The people who lived there had told reporters. "Always getting into some sort of trouble. Bad from the start. Threatening his relatives to keep them subservient. No good all around. But then again, we could never know he would be i b that /b /i bad. Who b ever /b knows?"
For Harry Potter, the 'delinquent' that grew up with his 'caring and devoted relatives,' was now known as the number one wanted man on the planet.
He was probably most widely known for blowing up the Eiffel Tower, although, according to police reports, he had done Big Ben before it.
Harry Potter's list of confirmed crimes was numerous. He had, at the very least, his very own drawer for files on him in the most remote and least developed police station somewhere in Africa. The larger places tended to reserve whole rooms for that sort of thing.
Besides the destruction of the Eiffel Tower, Big Ben, and even the London Bridge, he was charged with the murder of the beloved Queen and the entire Royal family. He was charged with the assasination of the British Parliment, the Prime Minister, his Cabinet, several British and American celebrities, the Ambassador to and from the United States, the murder of the American President, the murder of the Canadian President, the murder of all the Presidents of prominent Latin American countries, China, Australia, Japan, Russia, India and more. He was the destroyer of several sites of ancient Roman, Scottish, Irish, French, German, Spanish, and other ruins. He made off with the Crown Jewels, rumoured to have been melted down into darts which he used for various purposes, not to mention burned down several museums and destroyed countless hundreds and maybe even thousands of peices of priceless art and ancient texts. He frequently slaughtered the entire residents of seemingly random towns, appearing in Wales one day, and suddenly burning down a village in Austria the next.
Harry Potter was the most feared, active, and successful terrorist the world had ever known.
But what made him really feared, what made him so wanted, was that no one... i u no one /i /u , knew i why /i and more importantly i how /i he had accomplished such things.
Many people said he was the Devil's apprentice, that Satan himself had sent up demons with faces like skulls, dressed in flowing black robes to aid him. The sole purpose of Harry Potter and his Death Eaters, as they were called, was to bring about chaos and anarchy. To bring about the apocalypse and the beginning of a new age where Satan would roam free and the people of earth would burn for eternity in the fires of Hell.
Others thought they were some sort of British sympathizers. Loonies who believed that Britain, which had once been the most thriving nation in the world and had slowly lost its control over its lands to the independant occupants, should be returned to its former glory. People who belived Britain should be the epicenter of the world with all other nations bowing before its power.
The rumours were many. Speculations flew about like bits of paper in a strong breeze. Truths were very, very few, and even farther between.
The biggest truth of all was Harry Potter himself. For Harry Potter, as it was, had not set one foot outside in over twelve years.
He walked freely about. He ate his meals. He read books. He bathed. He slept. He thought and he breathed.
But he was a prisoner, and had been since the Order had fallen those many years ago.
No, it was Voldemort who had done all those things. Killed the dignitaries, destroyed important points of Muggle culture and history. Rampaged through random Muggle towns, leaving rivers of blood in his wake.
It was Voldemort who did these things, but Harry who got the blame.
At least once a day Harry would think about this and laugh. It was the only time he did.
At times he thought he now hated muggles as much as Voldemort did. But people were such drones. They believed the masses, and hardly ever changed their minds. So he couldn't really blame them for thinking of him what they did.
After all, the majority of the Wizarding world felt the same.
And that was the irony of it all. The very society which he had been welcomed into so eagerly, now fully believed he was a greater Dark Lord than even Voldemort or Grindewald. Because that was Tom's genius. He never fully announced his return. He kept the fact that he was alive to his closest and most trusted group of Death Eaters. There were about fifty in all. Some the origionals of his first uprising, many children of his second. People Harry had gone to school with. Attended classes with. Slept in the same dorm with.
Shocking, yes, but Harry had learned, after all, the price of stereotyping. You often automatically blame the innocents, while the guilty party gets off scott free.
Those fifty Death Eaters were the only ones that knew the Dark Lord Voldemort was really the ruler of the magical communities, and soon the world. The lower ranking deatheaters, and there were more of them each day, all thought Harry Potter was their actual commander.
Most of them did not care. To them Harry Potter now shared their goals. He was more powerful then they. So they would obey him as he shaped the new world.
The ones who didn't agree... well... they were dealt with.
Harry looked boredly over at the proceedings. Voldemort was sitting in his throne chair, nervously fiddling with his wand while his most trusted group of followers started entering the room.
Wait.
Harry made sure to make no visible signs of being startled. To not move his head, tense his body, or even breathe out of rythm. He listened.
'Click click click click' Voldemort was tapping his left shoe on the marble floor. But it wasn't a tap of impatience, it was a tap of restlessness.
'Slap tap slap tap slap tap' The sound of Voldemort's wand hitting the palm of his hand and the arm of the chair alternately as he held it between his first and middle finger.
It was a sound not often heard by Harry, at least not since Voldemort had succeeded in taking over the Magical world. The Muggle world didn't worry him as much. He felt as if they were not a challenge.
You see, Harry had been a prisoner for thirteen years. Ever since 1999. He had been nineteen years old. He was now thirty-two. Even if he hadn't wanted to, even if he hadn't grown, learned, observed, he would have known many of the Dark Lord's habits.
For example, playing with his wand.
When Voldemort was bored, he would spin his wand around on his palm or knuckles, never dropping it. Harry suspected he did that using magic.
When Voldemort was happy, his hands were still. They were relaxed. His wand was loose, but he was still ever watchful.
When Voldemort was mad... well.. Harry fancied that after all this time he could hear the creaking of the man's bones as his hand tightened around his wand.
But very rarely did Voldemort play with his wand in such a manner as he was at the moment.
In fact, Harry could recall only three times, in his presence, the Dark Lord had done such a thing.
One was before he took the American Magical Ministry. The second was when he took over the Chinese. And the third, of course, was when, after getting control of the three largest Magical communities, he launched a simultaneous world wide attack and took over the entire magical world (while not alerting anyone in the muggle world) in a manner of days.
He called it his 'Magical Blitzkreig,' after whom he said was the only muggle he'd ever allow to serve him. And Hitler would have been little more than a foot stool or a shoe polisher anyway.
The point was, Voldemort was nervous about something. The information was invaluable. Whatever would happen next, Harry would need to pay special attention to.
It took less than five more minutes for the remaining inner circle to appear. They all lined up in a semi-circle, according to rank, of course, and waited silently for what their Lord might command them.
Harry looked to Voldemort as well. His face blank, his eyes betraying no emotion. Usually, if Harry did nothing out of the ordinary, Voldemort would stay out of his mind. After numerous years of being subjected to Voldemort's Legimency, Harry managed to get a more than satisfactory grasp at Occlumency. Unfortunately, the link he shared with Voldemort was like having a gigantic doorway in his mind only Voldemort could see and go through, which was adorned with flashing neon signs basically saying 'Harry Potter's Brain! Enter Here!'
Harry cleared his head and paid close attention as Voldemort finally began to speak.
"Lucius." He said. His voice was not menacing. It was neither void of emotion or full of one in particular. However, Lucius Malfoy was as always slightly afraid. They all were.
"My Lord." Lucius said, moving to stand before Voldemort and bend at the waist. As the inner circle of Voldemort, the Death Eaters were granted the priveledge of not having to get on their knees and grovel at his feet. Of course, that did not save them from having to do so when they screwed up. But Harry got the feeling there would be no groveling or use of the Unforgiveables at this particular meeting.
"How... how long would you consider it has been since I started ruling the Magical part of Britain?"
Harry was instantly confused. Voldemort should have known something like this. The very days of his greatest conquests were celebrated now as national holidays, as he had made it so.
Malfoy seemed confused also, but answered promptly "Exactly thirteen years, two days from now, my Lord."
"Hm... yes." Said Voldemort, fiddling with his wand even more. For a moment he seemed off in his own world, forgeting Lucius was even standing in front of him. Lucius remained bowed, waiting for either a dismissal or a taste of the Cruciatus curse.
The chamber was silent, until Voldemort seemed to suddenly come back to himself.
"You're dismissed. You're all dismissed!" Voldemort snapped, tightening his hold on his wand, using his other hand to keep it still. "Get out of my sight, all of you!"
No one bothered to answer, they all just scurried out of the room as fast as they could. Lucius hesitated.
"Is everything alright, My Lord? Were we not planning an attack on some of the larger American Muggle cities?"
"Do whatever you want!" Voldemort yelled, waving his hand in a 'get out' motion. "Just get out of my sight!"
The last sentenced was snarled, composed with a promise of torture following non-compliance. Lucius chose to comply, leaving Harry and Voldemort alone in the Chamber.
Harry was silent. He stayed in his kneeling position and stared at the Dark Lord.
Voldemort went back to tapping his wand. He was mumbling to himself, his free hand was over his eyes and his posture was slouched.
He suddenly stopped and looked up. He locked eyes with Harry, seemed startled to see him there.
"What are you doing in here? I told you to get out!" He jumped up from his chair, looming over Harry. Harry was not frightened. One got used to such things.
Harry needed no further encouragement. He turned and practically ran out of the room, shutting the door behind him.
On his way to his rooms he was met with startled looks from the members of the Inner Circle who had chanced to remain.
Harry Potter was a sight to be seen.
And that was because, in the thirteen years since his capture, in the twelve years and some odd months since he had been outside, he had never, not once, left Voldemort's side unless the Dark Lord was participating in an attack.
Harry made his way quickly, barefoot, through the hall and into the room which was his and that he had not used in about five years.
It was as he remembered it. Not a speck of dust covered the top of the mahogany desk, and the bed looked as if the sheets had been changed and the quilt turned down that very morning. Harry suspected it had, House Elves were very thorough.
Harry collapsed on the bed, and it welcomed him.
With his newfound freedom, he did not choose to attempt an escape. He did not go to the library to research spells, or go around spying on any Death Eaters he could find.
He enjoyed relaxing, and a few minutes later, sleeping in the first bed in years he had occupied that had not, on the opposite side of the bed, contained the Dark Lord himself.
Harry sighed in his slumber, and the corner of his mouth upturned slightly.
In a few minutes a house elf popped in, pulling the covers over his pale, virtually unmarked body.
He slept for hours.
Pleaseallowmetointroducemyself
i b u Meanwhile, sitting in his throne... /u /b /i
Imamanofwealthandtaste
Voldemort couldn't bring himself to regret sending Harry out so abruptly. He couldn't bring himself to care about the rumours and whispers that might be started up by his followers for doing something so out of the ordinary.
He cared at the moment for only one thing.
In two days it was exactly thirteen years since he had total control of Magical Britain.
It had also been almost seven years since he gained total control of the Wizarding world, but that number did not matter.
Thirteen years. It had been thirteen years. Exactly. But he had made precautions, oh yes. There was no way... surely nothing would... he had been so absolutely i b certain /b /i ...
Yes. His plan had to have worked. It could be no other way. Everything had gone to plan. His assurance that the situation would go in his favour... well he could sign that promise in solid gold! Maybe not sign, wrong choice of words. Bet. Yes. A much better word. He liked the word bet, the word 'gamble. ' Well, so long as it was in his favour. And it was, he was absoltely certain of it.
He was, after all, only a few months, maybe a year, from world domination. He was, after all, the most powerful being on the planet.
And he was, after all, a verified genius!
Yes, he ascertained. Everything would be just fine.
But he could not escape the hot, unknown feeling bubbling in his gut.
Ivebeenaroundformanylongyearsstolemanyamanssoulandfaith
It was a typical day in New York City.
The city itself, as always, was bustling with activity. Traffic was backed up because of a fight between two homeless gents that had ended up as an all out brawl near the most active subway entrance on Wall Street.
Most of the sidewalk's clientele in this section of New York were Suits and Scabs, the special name that had been given to the more than usual amount of homeless and vagabonds that littered every availiable crevice during the day time.
Business for everyone was either good or bad, depending on the Stock Market. On good days the happy, now richer suits would be more inclined to drop a few coin into needy hands.
On bad days, the Suits were more likely to yell, and even give chase to some of the grubbier ones.
Today had been one of those days. Profit was scarce all around, which had resulted in the fight between two half sober homeless gents of questionable mental state.
Everyone was riled up. The Scabs were fed up with being Scabs. The Suits were fed up with the Scabs. People who frequented the street daily were fed up with them both. Hell, even the 'Regular Joes' going to take the subway and people driving through the street to wherever were especially, really just i generally /i , pissed off for some reason or even no reason in particular.
Looking over it all, one might attribute what happened next to the Suit's bad day. They might attribute it to the current overflow of traffic. They might attribute it to the slightly larger than normal crowd of Scabs.
Surely no one would have blamed it on the impeccably dressed gentleman ascending smoothly up from the subway below.
Even if there b u was /u /b no escalator leading up to or down from the subway, and even i if /i the gentleman's pant legs weren't so much as twitching as he ascended as if he were on one.
People who saw him doing such a thing automatically looked away and forgot they had even noticed it.
People walking up or down unconciously shifted further away from the man, getting a sence of unease but unable to place the source.
The man finally moved, putting one, shiny, richly clad foot forward onto the 'who knows what kind of biological warfare might reside there' sidewalk. He moved forward in a way that was careless as well as purposeful. As if he had a place to go, but wasn't expected to be there other than whatever time he specifically decided to be in that place.
If the sounds of all the world could have been silenced, one could have noticed the man made no noise as he walked.
He was tall, but not remarkably so. But he was by far average. He was handsome, remarkably so, but it was somehow unnoticeable. He was rich, but not too rich looking, but was, of course, by far the nicely dressed person within a five block radius. Possibly even further.
Starting with his shoes, they were shiny and black. Slightly pointed, and though the light shone off of them, they reflected nothing.
His pants were tailored to fit. A dark grey with thin black pinstripes. There was not a wrinkle to be seen, and somehow, if anyone had been able to notice the man and his attire, they would know that the material used to make them was nothing they had seen before.
His jacket was crisp and sharp looking, also free of any sort of crease, but it moved freely, fluidly. It was dark grey with black pinstripes also, and buttoned from the bottom to just over halfway up his chest.
Underneath he was wearing a silky black shirt, that if it had been felt by anyone, would havesent shocks of pleasure up their fingertips and throughout their body.
He was wearing a tie, and it was red. Not a blood red, or a muddy brownish red. It was bright red. As red as a freshly ripened berry, the kinds humans aren't able to eat but the birds are.
It was the only colour on his entire person, besides his lips. Even his eyes were void of colour. So black that it was almost impossible to tell the difference between the iris and the pupil. So black that it could not possibly be mistaken as a very dark shade of brown, blue, or green.
His skin was so pale and smooth it could have been ironed right along side his pants. Soft to the touch if one had the chance to do such a thing, and shining slightly, unnoticeable to most of the population, but to those who could with an unnaturalness that could put one off as well as attract them at the same time.
He ascended from the subways with a calm grace, and then strode accross the sidewalks, making no sound, as if he owned the place and could prove it without a doubt.
And, perhaps he could.
As he walked the violence around him grew even greater, more frenzied. The first vagabond broke a beer bottle over the other's head, soaking him in the remains of alcohol. A Suit punched the bottle weilder in the face. The man covered in alcohol and at least three layers of clothing pulled out a small, rusty, but functional knife.
As the man walked, no matter how much larger and violent the carnage became, they parted before him like the Red Sea parted for Moses.
Behind him, a second Suit took out a lighter and set the knife weilding bum on fire. The bum ran forward and tackled the first Suit, who started on fire as well.
The people nearest to them were shocked out of fighting as both men, unequal in many way mere moments ago but now resigned to the same, equally violent fate, rolled around on the ground in vain to put out the raging, hungry fire.
In the distance a police siren started to wail.
The man kept on walking, but now he had a slight smile upon his face.
Iwasaroundwhenjesuschristhadhismomentofdoubtandpain
Hello! I hope you like the thought of this new story. I've never read any fanfiction before that has anything like this. Inspired by the Rolling Stones, gotta love those guys. By the song 'Sympathy for the Devil' especially. I really really really hope to not have the plot slip away from my brain, because I'm good at making starts to stories but suck at all the important details. This story might not be very long, but I'll try to make it good.
Be aware that I might not update... well... much at all. Reviews don't help me like they might other people, either, sorry. I get inspired when I get inspired (Hey, maybe that's why I have over sixty unfinished stories saved on my computer?) anyways, I'll try my best. See ya later!