Welcome
The beginning (meaning the starting point) of this story was inspired by one I read some time ago but can't remember the name of. I solemnly swear that I did not steal the plot or want to take credit that belongs to another, so please acknowledge that. Warning: this story contains swearing, graphic depictions of violence and murder, moral ambiguity and much later smut. Yes, this will be LV/HP eventually but... slowly. Of course I will try to avoid overly OOCness but the characters have to make different decisions than in canon, otherwise we won't have our story.
I can not promise a regular update schedule, life is rather busy at the moment, but I have the whole plot written out in notes, so this story will be finished unless I die or World War III breaks out.
Also: reviews make me happy and any constructive criticism is welcomed because I really want to improve my writing. So, if you would leave your thoughts you'd really help me and hopefully all other readers when my writing improves. English is not my first language and I fear my education wasn't very consistent concerning British English and American English. I try to write BE but mistakes will happen and I'd be much obliged if you could point out any glaring errors I made.
Without further ado, I hope you enjoy the little story my mind has concocted.
"Expelliarmus!"
"Avada Kedavra!"
He felt the Elder Wand being ripped from his hand almost as if the wand was glad. Glad to be reunited with it's true master. So it was true... Potter was the true owner of the Death Stick... But there wasn't more time to form another coherent line of thought as his vision was consumed in green and then with a rush descended into darkness.
When he came to it was to darkness again but it seemed to be slowly pierced by light, softly illuminating his perception. Then it came to him that he had a perception at all, which was... strange... unexpected maybe? Because he was pretty sure that he must be dead. His own Killing Curse had hit him and since he hadn't been forcefully ejected from his body like last time... well and with all his Horcruxes destroyed apparently... being dead was the logical conclusion to arrive at. And in all his terrified musings about what death would be like and in all his attempts to avoid it, it had never occurred to him that his mind and perceptiveness would be still intact. Yet...
Slowly he started to take stock of his surroundings. In wondrous amazement he discovered that the light softly penetrating the darkness around him was caused by an external source of illumination, flittering through his eyelids. Eyelids! Salazar! If he had eyelids then... Slowly, hesitantly he tried to capitalize from this new discovery and attempted to use them. Like butterfly wings they fluttered open, only to instantly clench shut tightly when the surrounding light proved to be too offensive for what must be his eyes. However, never one to be deterred by unfavorable circumstances, he tried again and was after a few more attempts successful. What he saw however... Well, it was literally nothing. Or to be more accurate: whiteness. Everything was white, whiter than freshly fallen snow. And it stretched on, and on, and on. No discernible shape or contrast in sight. Nothing to provide a backdrop against this glaring brightness. He deduced quickly that he must lie on some sort of surface, was, however, unable to discern for how far it stretched. Frustratingly, the body he inhabited appeared to be difficult to navigate. The muscles seemed too weak and the proportions all out of bounds. Only awkward angles and sharp edges. After an unreasonably lengthy struggle with his vessel he managed to bring his hands into his line of sight. While a part of his mind noticed that he was panting from the exertion and wasn't it curious that even in death he required oxygen, the bigger part only thought loudly and evocatively: What. The. Fuck?
No, seriously: what the hell? While his palms were almost comically small his fingers were unrealistically elongated. There seemed to be no flesh between the bones and his skin. If the tissue covering his appendages could be classified as skin. It was red, raw and bleeding. Steadily oozing blood and other liquids. With the realization that he was hurt came the pain. He gritted his teeth. It was not the worst pain he had ever endured. Nevertheless, the accompanying circumstances made for a rather bleak assessment of the entire situation. He was wounded, helpless and stranded in a world of endless white. His body could only be operated under pain and tired easily. Oh, and he was fucking dead!
Suddenly his mind lost its clinical detachment and the emotions came crashing down like thunder. Anger. Hate. Fear. Panic. Pain. And with the tempestuous raging of emotions came another far more horrifying realization. Ever since he was a child his magic had always responded to his emotions. This phenomenon had continued throughout his whole life, even when he had only been a spirit. His magic had always been there: burning under his skin, melting on his tongue and cracking like static at his fingertips. But now... his emotions raged a war inside of him and yet his magic remained silent. He tried to coax it, force it, bend it to his will. Whispered the easiest and most basic spells under his breath. But to no avail. Inexplicably his magic did not respond. Naturally this sparked a veritable panic, terror consumed him and when he opened his eyes again, without the knowledge to have closed them, he had to admit that one: he seemed to have fainted in his hysteria. He would probably care if his fucking magic wouldn't have been gone and he wouldn't have been trapped in infinite whiteness in a parody of a human body. And two: he had no idea how to change his circumstances.
The second realization left him much chagrined. He had never felt so helpless. Not even when he possessed no body or when he had learned about the destruction of his Horcruxes. Because he still had his magic then, thank you very much.
What to do? What to do?
"Some would say that this is a very bad idea."
"I know, I just haven't got a better one."
Sometimes he imagined that he could make out shapes. He thought that there was vapour coiling and twisting into something, anything. When he managed to focus on the spot where he believed to have spotted this, however, everything regained smooth unending whiteness. This place, whatever it was, wherever it could be found remained unchanging to him. Only the edges of his vision were teased with the tantalizing possibility of change in this eternity of brightness.
The need to chase these potential changes in his surroundings soon vanished when it became clear that every attempt at catching them would remain fruitless. He got the distinct impression that who or what power controlled this place was playing with him. When this idea first crossed his mind he had been angry of course but now... now he was uninvested. Nothing ever changed. There was no form or structure. No colours or shadows. No perceivable flow of time. And no sounds apart from the ones he produced in his minuscule body, that upon further examination reminded him of the husk he had inhabited when Wormtail had found him. Not that any of it mattered. He was slowly but surely becoming apathetic.
"There is so much that can go wrong and so little which may go right."
"I know."
"Your hopes may come true but it is all depending upon happenstance."
"I know."
"It could turn out worse than before."
"I know."
An idle mind is the devil's playground.
In death he found this to be true. But who would have thought that death would be so uneventful? He certainly hadn't. Childishly perhaps he had always depicted death as never ending darkness -how ironic- or maybe as the Christian interpretation of heaven and hell. He blamed the orphanage, the old hag Cole in particular: "Don't forget to say your prayers before bed." "Bad children won't go to heaven, Tom." "Sinners will be punished in hell."
Well, if this was hell -because realistically he couldn't possibly go anywhere else- all the religions certainly had it wrong and the believers would be in for quite the surprise. There were no fiery demons torturing the deceased in the flaming pits of hell but only nothingness and solitude, which he admitted to himself might be even worse because he was slowly going insane. More than he had been before anyway. He could acknowledge that now, that he might have been slightly on the wrong side of mental stability. In retrospect his actions seemed often harsh and confusing. Guided by a steady stream of rage and anger. Damn him, but he had acted like a caricature of what he once was. Deranged where he had been charming, forceful where he had been cunning. Salazar Slytherin must be turning in his grave. Probably. Maybe he could ask him if he showed up. If anyone would ever show up. Even Dumbledore and his condescending self-righteousness would be a welcome distraction from this maddening monotony. He shuddered. This thought alone gave evidence to the direness of his situation.
The thought of Dumbledore showing up led to another far more unsettling possibility. His mother. He had never seen her, had had no picture and at the time he had not bothered to salvage an image of her from Morfin's deranged mind. If she were to show up would he recognize her? Would he even want to meet her when the extent of her care for her son had been giving him the name of his despicable father and seeing him only as an extension of the unworthy muggle? Dying on him when she could have lived? When she could have prevented the orphanage?
Yes, he would like to see her if only to unleash all these years of frustration and anger onto the woman who had given birth to him.
But would she like to see him? Probably not.
"I slowly get the impression that you want to talk me out of this."
"On the contrary. I simply want you to understand all possible consequences your actions could and will cause."
"Believe me I have thought about this... it's not like I feel comfortable with the idea but..."
"You see no other option."
"Yes... it's a chance, a small one but still... it's better than no chance at all."
"Very well. If you wish to proceed I will begin."
"... yes, please do."
He was in the middle of reciting the important dates of the first goblin rebellion to himself when it started. Without warning everything began to shake violently. A rumble vibrated through him and got louder and louder until his eardrums threatened to burst.
Crack! The whiteness around him burst open in several places and darkness seeped through the cracks. Mild panic gripped him, was he going to hell after all? Crack!
And then he was falling. There was no light, only darkness.
"And in the beginning there was only darkness.", was his last thought until he was swallowed whole.
When he came to it was to the distinct smell and flavour of... garlic? And -oh joy- more darkness. He really wished death would be more constant or at least more creative. First white then...
"Master?"
...black?
"Master?"
He knew this voice. Where had he heard it before? Quirrel! Of course! But... how?
"Master?", the voice of presumably Quirrel had taken on a distinct undertone of fear.
"Quirrel.", he said more question than statement.
"Yes, master. How may I serve you?"
To say that this was unexpected or downright illogical would be the greatest understatement in the history of wizard kind.
"Unwrap me."
With shaky hands his once upon a time servant complied. Layer upon layer of Quirrel's turban was divested from his face until he saw what was the defence teacher's office at Hogwarts.
Valiantly he prevented his voice from breaking: "Conjure me a mirror!"
When a round mirror started to float in front of his face, he could not stop his jaw from unhinging. Red slitted eyes, a pale gaunt face and nostrils where should have been a nose. Yes, that was his face and it was obviously attached to the back of Quirrel's head. Numerous questions clamoured to the forefront of his mind. How? Why? What? And again How? Because he had been dead, there was no doubt about it, all his Horcruxes had been destroyed and he had been dead. Was this a creation of his own imagination. Had he made up a different reality in order to escape the unchanging white? But surely his first idea would not have been the period of time he had spent on the back of the head of this incompetent excuse for a teacher? And everything felt and looked so real and detailed, from the stench of garlic to the motes of dust swirling in the sunlight.
"Quirrel, what day is it?"
"The 31st of October, my lord."
"The year, Quirrel, the year?"
While Quirrel's confusion was tangible, his fear prevented him from asking questions.
"1991, my lord."
"Today is the 31st of October 1991?", he inquired sharply.
"Y-yes, my lord, All Hallows' Eve 1991."
Lord Voldemort couldn't help it. He laughed and laughed and laughed.
"Ouch!"
A sudden spike of sharp pain in his forehead made Harry stop abruptly and smack a hand onto his scar. His lightning bolt shaped scar was unnaturally warm and sent bursts of pain throughout his skull. And as quickly as it started it stopped.
"-rry! Harry!"
His friend Ron was looking at him with furrowed brows, confusion and worry plainly written on his face.
"Are you alright, mate?"
"Yes, just a sudden headache."
"Really? Do you need to go to Madam Pomfrey? Get a pepper up potion?"
"Ron, I'm fine. It's gone now."
"Well, if you say so. Let's hurry then or we are gonna be late to the feast."
Harry shared a laugh with his freckled friend and continued their trek to the great hall. His fingers lightly traced it scar. It felt perfectly normal, no pain, no heat. But Harry was sure that he hadn't imagined the pain.
Strange.
On the 31st of October 1991 no troll entered the castle. Harry Potter and his friend Ron Weasley ate and drank until their pants felt at least one number too small. However, as fate or maybe something else would have it they went to the girl's bathroom to find a crying Hermione Granger. Apologies were awkwardly given and chips filched from the feast in a couple of handkerchiefs were shared between the three children. While this may not have been as eventful or distressing as battling a mountain troll would have been, it still served to forge a strong bond of friendship between them.
Consequently, Severus Snape was not injured by Fluffy and no further suspicion was cast upon Quirinius Quirrel, who was extremely flabbergasted by his Lord's unusual behaviour but was also, naturally, too afraid to question his master. The master in question was still reeling. He had given the command to abandon the mountain troll scheme -such an obvious ploy, what had he been thinking the first time around?-, and then retreated behind Quirrel's turban to think. His circumstances were impossible, illogical and utterly inconceivable. But against all odds and laws of magic and nature he was, apparently, alive again and in the past.
Around 4 o'clock the next morning Quirrel was roused from his slumber by his Lord laughing. To be quiet honest he was terrified, he had never heard the man laugh before and now two times in the last twenty-four hours. He cleared his throat a few times and inquired scratchily:
"My Lord?"
Lord Voldemort let his laughter abide and focused his view on the wall he was facing -Quirrel had to sleep on his side. He refused to have his face squished into a pillow- and breathed deeply a few times.
"Rise Quirinius. There is so much work to do."
Lord Voldemort had spent the whole night scheming and plotting, and was pleased to tell that he had come up with a plan to turn everything in his favour. Of course he still had no clue how exactly his second chance at life came to pass but it was about damn time, in his opinion, that luck was on his side. Thus, he would of course still research his unusual circumstances, even though he doubted he would find any trace of another person coming back from the dead and into the past. But he would not make it his first priority. No this was getting a new body for himself, so he could operate at his best and make his plans come into fruition.
He was disturbed from his train of thoughts by a voice he instantly recognized but was severely displeased to hear: Severus fucking Snape had instigated a conversation with the moron Quirrel over breakfast. As tempting as it was to make Quirrel draw his wand and end the traitor's life there and then, it would be quite counterproductive for his long term plans. And yet, Snape managed to ignite a rage of epic proportions in him, he had betrayed him, betrayed him when he had favoured him, taught him magic himself, saved him from his despicable muggle father. And if what Potter said to him before their final confrontation was to be believed Snape had betrayed him for a woman. A mudblood no less. A woman who had rejected Snape, Voldemort recalled with no small amount of vindication. But seriously, he remembered Lily Potter, she was talented, he could admit that, and she had been beautiful but very narrow minded in her perception of what was right and wrong. Severus, he recalled was a lot more morally flexible. And then there was of course the fact that she married his childhood tormentor and had a baby with him. Try as hard as he might, Voldemort could not grasp Severus' motivation. Why betray him for a dead woman, who had most emphatically rejected him and his beliefs and further humiliated him by marrying his worst enemy. All because of a fallout over one insult Severus had thrown at her in anger, after he had been loyal to her for years. And then proceed to protect her son, whom he abhorred. Logically speaking it made no fucking sense to Voldemort. Maybe Snape wanted his revenge on him. He had promised him after all that she might live if she would be sensible. Revenge was a motivation he understood. Revenge he could work with. And he would work with it. Snape would pay for his betrayal, pay dearly, but he would have his uses beforehand. He would serve as his spy again when he returned. Only this time Voldemort was aware of his duplicity and would act accordingly. He would give Snape all the information the old fool would expect him to, and Dumbledore would be pleased with his little spy, he would trust him but he, Lord Voldemort, would already be playing an entirely different game. And when Snape's usefulness would run out... well, he would make an excellent example to his Death Eaters concerning treason. In the meantime though, Snape would unwittingly continue to serve him in a matter of utmost importance. He would protect his little Horcrux. Because no matter how much he wanted to make Potter choke on his own blood, he was his Horcrux and he would never knowingly harm a part of his own soul. And this time he knew. Of course it galled him that part of his soul was trapped in the person he hated almost as much as Dumbledore but he would not harm him. Maybe later he would try to separate his soul piece from the boy and find a more appropriate vessel, but for now no harm must come to Harry Potter. The irony was not lost on him. Quirrel started to move. First period were the first year Gryffindors. Time to start.
Defence Against the Dark Arts was perhaps Harry's least favourite subject after Potions. Not that the class did not interest him, it really did, but the classroom always smelled like garlic, Professor Quirrel's stutter made it very difficult to understand him and his head always hurt. So he was in equal parts wary and excited when the Professor told them that today would be a practical lesson.
"T-t-today we w-w-will be l-l-learning a l-l-little hex th-th-that is n-n-not too a-a-advanced but may h-h-help you in a-a-a situation where you m-m-must defend y-y-yourselves."
With a flick of Quirrel's wand an incantation appeared on the board.
"H-h-has anyone a-a-any idea what s-s-spell this is?"
Predictably Hermione's hand shot in the air, threatening to knock Harry's glasses of.
"The nose-bleed hex, Professor."
"Correct. F-f-five points to G-g-gryffindor. A-a-as the name s-s-says this s-s-spell makes y-y-your opponents nose b-b-bleed. It m-m-might come in h-h-handy to get you o-o-out of a s-s-sticky situation. A-a-a demonstration. Mr. P-p-potter, please come i-i-in front o-o-of the class."
Harry nearly groaned. Could Quirrel even execute the spell correctly, what with his stutter and all? He liked his nose as it was, thank you very much. But Ron pushed him encouragingly forward and Hermione muttered: "Lucky you."
She was unreasonably eager, in Harry's opinion, to act as a guinea pig. When he stood a few feet across from Quirrel, the Professor raised his wand and pointed it between Harry's eyes. The whole class seemed to hold their breath as one man and when the silence started to get uncomfortable Quirrel moved. Harry only had time to register that he didn't stutter when he said the incantation before he felt something hot drip out of his nose, onto his lips and running down his chin. He heard Seamus and Dean cheer and Ron cry out "Wicked!", but he only frantically checked his nose. It didn't feel any different. Thank God. The Professor appeared in front of him and touched his nose lightly with the tip of his wand, immediately the bleeding stopped. Quirrel then pulled out a handkerchief and proceeded to wipe away the excess blood on Harry's lips and chin. When the man deemed his task successful he turned to the class.
"Th-th-thank you Mr. P-p-potter. F-f-five points f-f-for Gryffindor. Everyone, p-p-please find a-a-a partner a-a-and practice the s-s-spell together."
For the rest of the lesson Harry and Ron proceeded to try make each others nose bleed. Hermione finally managed to make poor Neville's nose bleed and was awarded another five points after the Professor stopped his bleeding too. Neither Harry nor Ron had mastered the spell when the bell rang but Ron assured him that Harry had made his nose itch a few times, and in any case, if they were ever in trouble they could simply punch the guy in the face. This made the Gryffindor boys laugh uproariously on their way to their next lesson. Maybe Defence Against the Dark Arts wasn't so bad, his head didn't even hurt today.
Night had fallen in Scotland and Voldemort, having taken control of Quirrel's body, sat at the man's desk and was writing out precise instructions on a piece of parchment. This would be the stage of his plan with the highest risk of failure but time was of the essence, he would like to avoid having to drink Unicorn blood and therefore, had to proceed swiftly. Ideally, he would have his new body before Yule. Sadly, it all depended on one of his other servants, one even more incompetent then Quirrel, but beggars can't be choosers.
Today's lesson had been a success in more than one way. First of all he had obtained a few drops of Potter's blood. Not, strictly speaking, forcibly taken this time but with the other adjustments he planned for his resurrection it would do the trick. Of course Potter would gain the prolonged protection from his mother's sacrifice, since Potter's blood would flow in his veins again but this would work out in his favour. As long as Potter was his Horcrux he wouldn't want him to die anyway, and if he wanted to find a way to extract his piece of soul from the boy, he would need to be able to touch him without turning into ash. Yes, Potter's blood was still an essential component for the construction of his new body. All he needed was in his grasp now, bar one thing. And this was where the second success of the day came in. One well placed Imperius Curse was all it needed...
As if on cue a scratching noise sounded from the door. Amused Voldemort stood and strolled to the door. He opened it, smirked upon seeing the deserted corridor and closed it again. With a few movements of Quirrel's wand he erected strong wards around the office and then turned to attend to his guest. One flick and swish later he cancelled the Imperius Curse and where before sat a rat now was a rather rotund man, missing a finger and frantically looking around in mounting panic.
"Crucio."
After relishing in the agonized cries for a minute, Voldemort stopped his curse. The man on the floor was twitching and writhing pathetically, tears streaming down his face.
"Who... who... are you."
"Hello, Wormtail. Long time no see."