A/N:: This is the first Harry Potter fan fiction that I have ever uploaded to a site, so please let me know what you think! I hope you'll enjoy it.
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or anything associated with it. I am making no profit from the writing of this story.
Betwixt and Between
Prologue
On the night his world came crashing down, his plans brought nearly to ruin, it was raining. The rain spattered his cloak, chilling him to the bone, numbing his extremities, like an omen of what was to come. Inwardly, he snorted in amusement. He'd never put much stock in omens or portents. The 'art' of Divination was inexact at best and ludicrous at worst. Regardless of the weather or the chill that seemed to settle deep within him, he was pleased with this night's works. He and his followers had destroyed another family of dissenters, and not only that, but another member of the Wizengamot had joined him. Yes, indeed, this night had gone well.
His reddened eyes, a product of one of his Horcruxes, followed the snaking lines of his Dark Mark as it glowed in the sky, hovering over the house of one of his enemies. With a satisfied smirk, he turned on the spot, and apparated back to his sanctuary, his home. There was a lovely, intelligent wife waiting for him, and his, no doubt powerful, baby girl to check on. His smirk softened slightly at the thought of his child. Yes, it had been a good choice to have an heir, female though she turned out to be. Already, he could feel the magic pulsing within her, though at a year and 3/4s she did not yet have outward displays of magic. As she grew older, her power would only increase. She would be brilliant.
The moment he stepped through the door of his home, he knew something was wrong. The house was too quiet, too still. The little sounds of movement, the cries of a young child, all were absent. The chill in his bones grew worse. Suddenly worried, he touched the tip of his wand to his left arm, calling his loyal to him. Unwilling to wait for his followers to arrive, he moved deeper into the house. The further he went, the worse the silence, until he felt as though it were pressing down on him, choking the very breath from his body.
The door to his study was ajar. With a sinking feeling in his chest, he slowly pushed the door open, wand at the ready, and curse on his lips. The sight that met his snake-slit eyes would haunt him for years. There, crumpled on the floor, lay his wife, Alcina. Her glazed eyes were wide in horror, fear etched into the delicate lines of her face, her hair surrounding her like a wild halo. Despite knowing what he would find, he knelt next to her fallen form, and reached a slightly trembling hand to her throat. Dead. She was dead.
He stood swiftly, cloak flaring about his tall frame as he spun towards the door. If his wife was dead, the wife only his Death Eaters were supposed to know of, then his child... his child... With fear pounding through his body to the pace of his heart, he dropped all caution and ran for his daughter's room. The door was shut. In desperation, he shoved it open. The sound of rain shattered the silence, the open window gaping, curtains billowing in the wind. He lit his wand, and edged closer to the crib, the central focus of the room. The light spilled down, illuminating the empty crib. There was no child crying there, no child sleeping, or looking up at him with her large, inquisitive eyes.
As his Death Eaters spilled into the room, their wands raised, searching for enemies, he cast a tracing spell to lead him to the only person he didn't hesitate to call family. It failed. He cast it again, and again, but the results never changed. His fury tore through the room, his magic pulsing wildly, and his followers fell to their knees in fear. Dumbledore, that infuriating, senile old meddler! This was his doing! He seethed. His wife was dead, and his child gone. He would search, oh, he would search, as would all his followers, but he knew that if Dumbledore had taken her, she would not be easily found.
The first wild rush of hot rage ebbing, his thoughts turned to retribution. No amount of damage would be enough to replace his heir, but perhaps, yes, perhaps there was something he could use. The Potters... according to the thrice damned prophecy, their son was a danger to him. Though he refused to believe the words of a crazy fraud like Trelawney, perhaps he could use the knowledge. Yes, after all, why should Dumbledore's favored get to keep their child, when he could not? With a cold, fury-edged look in his blood-red eyes, Lord Voldemort strode from the room, planning the death of one Harry James Potter.