Hey everyone! This is my first story, and the plot is still a WIP, so don't expect posts too often. That being said, I'd love to hear the initial reception to these first couple chapters.

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. If I did, I wouldn't need to write this.

"Dialogue"

Thoughts

"Parseltongue"

~Number 4, Privet Drive~

Privet Drive was a perfectly ordinary street.

It ran between two rows of perfectly manicured lawns, clear of litter or debris. This was in large part due to the resident flock of housewives, which set upon it the morning after their children had finished their Halloween revels like a flock of pigeons, picking its bones clean of crushed chocolates and scraps of paper.

A casual glimpse down the street would reveal nothing unexpected: rows of hedges, the occasional tree, and a cat, perched on the corner between Number 3 and Number 4.

This particular cat, however, was anything but ordinary.

Stretching, the tabby looked around, shook itself out, and sauntered to the end of the street, just in time to witness what appeared to be a spontaneous burst of golden flame.

"Where have you been, Albus!" Minerva McGonagall hissed angrily, transforming in time to meet the man stepping out of the flames with a bundle in his arms.

"Hagrid returned with the boy as quickly as he was able to, my dear."

"I can't believe it's really over. And all because of this child?"

"His parents sacrificed themselves to save him," Albus replied. "And love may very well be one of the most powerful magics there is."

"Almost as powerful as Lily's blood magic, no doubt. She always was a clever one, poor girl," McGonagall lamented. "What shall happen to him now, Albus? This family will not care for a child such as he. Why, I even saw them unplug the television when it started showing a magic show!"

"Alas, Minerva, these are his last blood relatives. The protections I can put in place here will be much stronger than if he were to stay with anyone else." So saying, Albus Dumbledore touched his wand to the scar on the infant's head, withdrawing a last drop of blood and sealing it. With grand, flowing motions, he bound layer after layer of invisible protections to the house. "As long as he can call this place home, these wards will protect him from the magic of those that wish him harm."

"As you wish, Albus." McGonagall vanished with a muted crack.

As Dumbledore laid the child on the step of Number 4, withdrawing a letter from his voluminous robes to lay alongside him, a soft hoot caught his attention. Fawkes hovered over the boy, glaring reproachfully as Dumbledore sighed.

"I had hoped this would not get between us, my friend," Dumbledore sighed. "It pains me as well, but this must be done for the Greater Good. The Wizarding World needs this too much for it to be any other way."

Fawkes crooned in disappointment, before vanishing in a puff of flame. Sighing again, Dumbledore trudged back to the street, gazing at the small, vulnerable bundle until another crack was heard and he vanished, leaving the street vacant once again.

Unbeknownst to its residents, however, Privet Drive had become anything but ordinary.

For it was now the home of an extraordinary boy by the name of Harry Potter.

~An Unnamed Forest, Albania~

"Argh!" Voldemort hissed as he Apparated yet again, forcing himself onward despite his near-exhaustion. There was no danger of splinching himself, he reasoned, not now that his physical form had been destroyed during the clash between him and the Potters. Though that didn't help much in dealing with magical exhaustion. Even he, the greatest wizard of his time, had to admit that he had limits, and he was quickly approaching them.

One last jump landed him in Albania, surrounded by forest for miles in every direction. He couldn't help but remember the last time he had visited this particular forest. He was much more powerful now, he supposed, and less prone to bouts of the awe he had displayed then, when he found Ravenclaw's diadem. One of the anchors that even now bound him to this world, stronger than even the most powerful of lethal magics.

But what had stopped him from killing the boy? It must have been at least as powerful as his curse, Voldemort grudgingly admitted, to be able to deflect it almost completely away from the child. And it wasn't magic he had ever seen before, despite his lengthy travels and willingness to delve into the darker side, where true power was found. No, it was either something ancient and potent, or something entirely new.

More pressing, however, than the nature of the magic, was the puzzle of where it came from.

It couldn't have been the boy, could it?

No, Voldemort thought, impossible. Accidental magic of that scale was unheard of. It must have been the mother, he decided. For all his skill in dueling, James Potter was not known for his talent in magical research. The Mudblood must have been researching the old magics, Voldemort deduced. Only blood magic could be that powerful, and it was inconceivable that she had managed to create something so strong by herself. She must have used her death to protect her son, he concluded with a grimace.

At least the protection is gone. With her death, their power will have dissipated by now. No one had ever managed blood magic that could last long beyond the life of its creator. The boy would be under the protection of that fool Dumbledore by now, however, and he did not have enough power to strike again so soon in any case.

"That blasted prophecy!" he hissed, scaring away the few animals curious enough to approach the clearing he occupied. His Death Eaters would have scattered without him, setting his conquest of Britain back decades. He needed to rebuild his army if he was to have any chance of regaining the control he once had. Perhaps some traveling is in order. There are many on the Continent that crave the power I offer, and they would jump at the opportunity to reinstitute the regime they took part in under Grindelwald. He would have his revenge, he decided. And those that once stood in his path would be utterly obliterated to make way for the new order, as he took up the mantle of ruler of Wizarding Britain.

"Come to me, my servants," he called in Parseltongue. As he listened to the cacophony of hissed responses, he smiled.

He would have his revenge, and Harry Potter would perish.