Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.

Prologue

31st October, 1981

The domestic white pick-fence truly was a sickeningly familiar sight; however unrelated, it still stood as an undeniable and unremitting link to all he despised from his haunting past. It was, in a way, the same picket-fence he'd been forced to confine himself in for the worst years of his life, sitting on the bland side staring out. Even after all these years and all that had happened, it still felt strange, and a little unearthing, to be staring into the caged space.

So it was with great reluctance that he unhinged the muggle silver lock from it's wooden frame and swung the fairy tale gate open. The swish from the gate created a small breeze, ruffling the leaves across the pavement and onto the finely cut grass, more so as he stepped through the arch of the gate. In front, the lights were on and Voldemort could hear delighted laughs and cries as James and Lily Potter enjoyed their last moments with their young son.

Unsurprisingly, he truly felt no remorse, not pity; just nothing for the crimes he has, and would, commit. It simply failed to matter, failed to bother him in every sense. No, the murder of the child is nothing to him; just another face in the endless stream of victims, perhaps a little younger than the rest. Except...

Except this child was different. This child, merely a baby, would become his defeater – his conqueror. The boy that had been destined to kill him. Ridiculous, he thought, snapping the hatch back shut with a flick of his long wand. Absolutely and utterly ridiculous. No mere baby, or even a grown man, would ever have any hope to defeat him, even if they, by any chance, became lucky and killed his body. It wouldn't be possible to kill him; he knew it, the fools of the Wizarding World knew it and, best of all, Dumbledore knew it. He would not be defeated: ever. The world, as the muggles did say, was at his feet.

There were shadows across the window to the little house now. No doubt the incompetent fools were pointlessly gushing around like a babble of headless chickens – rather; the boy and his pet mudblood would be desperately planning their own escape. He could picture it, as clear as day, in his mind. The boy, trying to act the heroic moron he was so fond of being, proclaiming he would be able, by some miraculous feat, to hold off the most powerful wizard of all time, twice his age, while the red-headed filth and the brat hid from sight. His lips lifted into a feral grin as the scene in his mind took a violent turn; as the head Potter fell screeching; beseeching, at his feet while the other Potter's screamed and cried and huddled together.

For the second time that night, Voldemort cracked a door open with the force of a tornado gushing threw. To his far right, in the corner of his eyes, he could see the wide-eyed, slack-jawed young man that spawned the little demon destined to kill him. Potter's wand was trembling dramatically in his hand, no doubt clammy from the amount of sweat he produced. Suddenly, Voldemort tersely.

"Potter," he drawled in the best imitation of Severus' voice he could manage. Successfully, he might add, because Potter's slack-jawed face was suddenly fuelled by a hatred that almost touched his own. There would be no misconceptions between them – Potter seemed quite aware that Severus had fallen into his inevitable fate; bending over backwards to serve his Lord's most tedious and extreme desires.

The Potter brat had now managed to wipe the anger from his face. Instead, there was a clear and – dare he say it – almost intelligent look as it's replacement. Whatever Potter might be thinking about, it was taking the majority of his limited brain capacity. A manoeuvre, Voldemort guessed, that would no doubt turn pathetic and fruitless, no matter how amusing it may prove. As much as he would enjoy the expression when he realised his plan wouldn't work, Voldemort had more drastic problems to take care of; the prophesied boy, for instance.

"V-Voldemort," he spat menacingly – well, as menacingly as a man dressed in his pyjama's could sound. Sweat could be seen dribbling down the side of his face in a small stream of unattractive stench that found Voldemort tutting at the atrocious and primitive display. He had no doubt the boy's heart was beating as erratically as it's little self could without forcing an unplanned heart attack.

"Excellent guess, dear boy. Now I shall warn you once – move aside, and I shall spare you. If not, than you shall die with the diseased little brat," he curtly said, as though the topic at hand was a common, domestic topic such as the weather. Potter had actually began to let off little unappreciative noises, like growling, after the insults had left his lipless mouth.

"I'll kill you if you take -" Potter started, his face pressed as he directed the blunt of hatred towards the intruder of his home. Voldemort, however, found the blatant display of courage over-dramatic and bothersome, merely lifted a pale hand and pointed towards Potter.

"Avada Kedarva," he cut in, grinning maliciously as the spark of life was ripped out of the ex-Gryffindor. Potter collapsed, his neck making a pleasing snap as it bashed against the wooden coffee table. Rather than stopping to admire his work, Voldemort's eyes traced the room until he found the stair-case leading to the second story. Mudbloods were animals; once the leader was removed, the rest fell to pieces without an intelligent thought between them.

He could hear the soft sniffles from the last bedroom at the end of the hall, along with the pathetic whimpering of a child. In the mudblood's haste to escape, she had knocked over an end-table which had been shoved up against a wall, creating a barrier between Voldemort and the walk-way. He flicked his wand once, and the end-table had vanished.

In the bedroom, the mudblood was cradling her brat to her breast whispering comforts in his ear. Voldemort scoffed at the pathetic display of emotion he there witnessed; the streaming tears, the blotchy red faces, the babyish gurgling of saliva – it was disgraceful, and it gave him a sense of pleasure in his knowledge that this would soon end.

"Stand aside, woman, and you may live," he commanded, although the woman made no apparent movement. Instead, her face twisted into an ugly look of challenge. She shifted the baby behind her, back into its bed, and raised her wand. Voldemort, tiring of the petty displays of bravery and loyalty, flicked his wand at her before she had time to mutter a spell, and the air was paved with green and the sound of a screaming woman. Her body fell to the ground with a thump, and the whimpering of the child ceased. He raised his wand for the final time that night, and uttered the curse.

And then there was pain.

Next chapter will be much longer, as this is only the prologue. If you have any concerns, issues, ideas or questions, don't be shy to leave me a message. - Crez.