Fated Origins: Chapter 1: Prologue

Disclaimer: I own nothing of either of these creations. All rights go to JKR and George Lucas. This is non-profit in every sense.

Warnings: Now that I've cleared up any potential lawsuits, allow me to toss a disclaimer out there. This will be somewhat of a Dark fic. There will be character deaths, of both good and evil, and vivid descriptions of said deaths. Also, many distateful and or questionable matters will make appearances, such as but not limited to: forced servitude, torture, rape, exploitation, abuse and so on. So, it'll be a fun one! As for consensual sexual situations, I'm not sure yet, though there is a definite possibility.

A/N: To begin, I would like to thank Darth Marrs for his amazing fic: Broken Chains. It provided me with profound inspiration for this story, and some of his brilliant phrasing will be basis for some descriptions here.

I am really unsure of any romantic pairing as of now, because I am depending upon feedback on the first few chapters as to whether or not I'll even continue it.

This will be set during the end of OOTP, or around that time. 19 BBY for SW. It will contain both Universes, HP in present, SW in past.

Enjoy!

July 15, 1943-Little Hangleton, northern England

The night air was acrimoniously cold. Too cold. The irregularity of the frostiness of the atmosphere in Little Hangleton was almost foreboding. Tom Riddle, Sr., proprietor of the Riddle Manor of Little Hangleton, paced in front of his dining room table, the space lit only by dim candlelight. The finer delights of rich folk, portraits and sculptures and objects of fine gold, stood in prominent places. Conflicting with these incarnations of vanity, however, were empty bottles and assorted pieces of rubbish that lay discarded about the room's floor, forgotten immediately after use. The place was a glorified exhibit of squalor; it would lead one to wonder if slovenly alcoholics had taken up stay in someone's luxurious manor.

It was a habit of the elder Riddle to physically wander in tandem with his mind while engaged in deep rumination; and furthermore, it was an understatement to say 'he had a lot on his mind'. The reason for his late-night reverie was on account of the fact that he was, in his own words, "in a load of shite". His drunken associations with a certain Lucretia Black, who was apparently related to some important 'magical' family, had cost him dearly in the form of a an unexpected son.

Aristarchus Cygnus Riddle-Black.

He was a beautiful, bastard child, born only but a week earlier. A surprise to all involved, Riddle had been present at the delivery of the baby, and even more shocking was his concession to Lucretia's chosen name for the baby (which he personally thought doomed the kid to a life of public bemusement whenever his name was used).

Capriciously, Riddle, Sr. did not blame himself for his role in the creation of the child. He was too haughty for self-responsibility; in his own mind, there was no other option but to return the beautiful girl's booze-induced affections for him, even after the death of his previous wife, Merope Gaunt, left him a widower. Neither did it bother him that she was a witch, similarly to Merope, and there was a very good chance his new son would be 'magical' as well.

'Well, at least he will have something in common with Tom…' he thought.

Lucretia had offered to take full custody of the infant (she refused marriage), but Tom had declined. For such an arrogant, supercilious man, he did have a heart, and he did not want to lose another child. Instead, he took Aristarchus to his manor in Little Hangleton and decided that he would raise the boy himself, casting aside the facts that he was both completely incompetent and a single father. Now, this was where the 'load of shite' came into play for a second time. After only three days of possessing and caring for his newfound son, he had come to his own conclusions that he was unqualified and in need of dire assistance. And so there he was, pacing his dining room, trying vainly to settle on a solution.

*Knock.*

*Knock.*

*Knock.*

Tom paused his meandering, head springing up instinctually. Someone at his door, at this hour of the night? He assumed it was another inebriated neighbor, asking him to come join some idiotic party. Tom sighed in irritation, proceeding out of his dining room and down the hall to his front door. He peered out a small side window next to the entrance.

A gasp leapt involuntarily from his throat.

It was a younger version of himself, staring into his own eyes.

Tom. His son.

Tom Riddle, Sr., throwing caution to the wind, opened the door.

"Son? Tom?" he inquired, his voice tinged with both joy and uncertainty.

The Riddle son's facial expression maintained a state of rigid somberness. His mouth slowly opened, like some streamlined automaton, and he drawled a greeting, filled with undisguised hate.

"Hello…father."

In the flash of an eye, the man known as Voldemort withdrew his wand and shouted a word unintelligible to his father. Though indecipherable, the word held deed. Tom Riddle, Sr. was blown off his feet with the force of a cannon and thrown violently down the corridor behind him. He slammed into a wall with enough velocity to leave a sizable indentation and slid down, crumpling upon impact with the floor. An exquisite chandelier fell from the ceiling, shattering on impact several feet before the downed man.

Voldemort ambled languidly to where his father lay, kicking the ruined remains of the ceiling ornament aside as he passed.

"I'm so sorry I had to greet you like this, father," he said sardonically. His silky voice, imbued with unbridled loathing, rang like a death knell. "But, the time has come for retribution for your abandonment of mother and me."

"Son, wait! You don't have to do this!" pled Riddle, Sr. through the enormous pain that had erupted down the entire length of his body. In some corner of his mind, there was a fragment of hope that this man before him, his own son, would be rational enough not to harm the man that had conceived him any further.

A trickle of blood crawled unhurriedly down his forehead, crimson and gleaming in the candlelight. It inched like a worm down between the man's brows and along the bridge of his nose, gathering at the tip before a single drop plunged to the wooden floor. The first drop of family blood had been spilled, and Voldemort gazed upon it with briefly fixated anticipation, hungry to shed more.

The Dark Lord's eyes flicked to his father's before he raised his wand and continued, voice grossly calm. "I'm afraid I do. Do not prolong your beseeching; no words can save you, father. Do not worry, it will be over soon, and you shall then taste the flames of-,"

Suddenly, Voldemort's vengeful diatribe was interrupted by a shrill cry: the terrified wail of a child. The noise had emanated from above the two men. Riddle, Sr.'s eyes widened to panicked proportions.

"What was that, father?" Voldemort asked, voice so sickeningly sweet it was infinitely more frightening that the threat of death that stared his father in the face.

The Riddle patriarch, ignoring his injuries in a burst of adrenaline, leapt to his feet.

"NO! YOU WON'T TOUCH-,"

Tom Riddle, Sr.'s frenzied shout was cut short as a bolt of green light collided with his chest. He instantaneously went limp, and like a ragdoll, slumped to the floor in a heap. He lay still, slain by his own son.

And there Voldemort stood, wand still extended, without even the slightest trace of remorse on his warped psyche. He simply gazed at his father's corpse, feeling in some twisted manner that this act of patricide was his awaited reckoning. He felt revoltingly fulfilled, and yet at the same time, bloodthirstily empty.

More must pay.

He was abruptly torn from his victorious reflections as another infantile cry assaulted his ears.

A child? Of his wretched father's? How?

He whipped around, striding up the stairs to the first floor, listening for another cry. An additional shriek did come, and Voldemort perceived it to have originated from a room three doors to the left. With a flick of his demise-dealing wand, the door was flung open, and the darkest wizard the world will ever know stepped into the gaily-colored room of an innocent child.

oOoOoOo

19 BBY-Outer Rim

"Master, Lord Vader is requesting that he be allowed admittance to the ship. He states that the need to speak with you is urgent."

Darth Cadmus, Dark Lord of the Sith, languidly opened his mediation-heavy eyelids. His pose was traditional, the lotus, performed while hovering a foot off of the ground. He floated in this pensive position at the helm of his flagship, the Black Dagger's, bridge, where often he would reside, gazing out the ship's frontal view-ports, calculating, commanding, and meditating. The last was imperative to his rigorous training.

Attaining the concentration for internal reflection was simple, but he held an extreme distaste for being interrupted. He rotated around in mid-air, coming face to face with the perpetrator. It was Astraea, one of his salacious slave-concubines, of whom he was somewhat fond. If what he felt was even fondness at all…

He stared indifferently at her, orange eyes burning intensely into her own violet ones. Searching her. Her visage managed to remain stalwart.

"Inform him that he may enter."

She bowed low and turned to depart. He watched her luscious figure retreat, hips swaying in entrained seductiveness, and smirked slightly. He chose only the most beautiful, the flawless, the immaculate. Nevertheless, he took her, and the rest of his harem, only when the desire became too great. Sexuality was one of the baser intuitions of his humanity, and Cadmus generally abhorred it. However, he did not loathe it for the pleasure or the act: It was a barrier to true mastery of oneself. Some Sith viewed it as a passion, but Cadmus held it as an impulse, an involuntary need to procreate, an inopportune aspect of his humanity. To be in complete control over oneself every instinct and intuition must be dominated, allowed to manifest or to be restricted at one's own whim. Love, hate, lust, fear. Every emotion and sentiment must be brought under rein to function at one's zenith. Subsequent this, they then can be used as tools, and more importantly, weapons.

Cadmus' intensive training had brought him nearly to this state of self-supremacy. Very rarely, his instincts surfaced in brief moments uncontrolled, and Cadmus would punish himself for it. It was the pathway to strength. Pain and suffering were incredibly useful tools, even for use on oneself.

His cogitations returned to the matter Astraea had brought to him. Vader. His co-apprentice under Darth Sidious, the Emperor. They held a mutual dislike for one another, unsurprisingly. The resolution to their apprenticeship was an inevitable and constantly-pressing quandary, for only one would succeed the position. But that issue was left in a gray area, to be determined when the time came. Indubitably, it would end with Vader's or his own death. It was foolish, and merely due to the fact Sidious apparently could not decide upon things with permanence. Furthermore, it was a direct violation of the Rule of Two, permitted indefinitely by Sidious.

Yet, despite this, Cadmus was considerably stronger than his cohort, and it was becoming increasingly evident as he grew in the Force and his powers matured, for he was only a youth of nineteen. Even at nineteen, he was among the most potent the Universe had been witness to.

Nineteen years it has been. Nineteen years since my discovery…

Cadmus eradicated the thoughts from his mind. He could not contemplate his past now; it would be detrimental to his meditation period. Deep reflection in pose cultivated his powers and intellect, brought him closer to the Force, and further connected him with the ethereal Darkness. It was necessary that he begin again to maximize the benefits.

Cadmus let his eyelids fall anon. Within his mind, he envisioned everything and nothing at once, the Force, and grasped a hold of this veiled omniscience, melding it. He immersed himself within it, felt the knowledge of a hundred thousand minds commune with his own, sensed the Hand of the Universe upon his psyche; his eyeballs rolled back in his skull…

"Cadmus."

His eyes snapped open. The effervescent aura of the Force and its strengthening passivity departed. Disrupted a second time. Irritation pricked at the base of his consciousness, but he immediately subdued it. He could not relay it in his words to his equal.

Vader stood before him, standing in a firm position. Feet planted solidly, head held purposefully. What he could read of the mechanical man's Force Signature, concealed from years of training, held a sense of determination. The matter was apparently important.

Cadmus did not reply.

Vader ignored this, and continued.

"The Emperor is not pleased. Grievous is dead at the hand of Kenobi on Utapau."

Cadmus felt a twinge of shock, but it vanished within seconds. Grievous was old, and failing from illness, he was no match for a strong Jedi such as Kenobi. All that was left was to appoint a Supreme Commander-replacement…

Cadmus fluidly returned to the floor. He removed himself from the lotus position and stood, drawing himself up to full height, six feet-five inches. Vader was nearly as tall as himself, merely an inch or two short. Both were intimidating, however: Vader with his machinery and history, and Cadmus with his build and gaze. It was said that his stare alone could frighten even an enraged Rancor into fleeing. They stood watching one another, neither moving, before Cadmus spoke.

"Vader, you are not a surreptitious individual. I can effortlessly sense that your 'visit' here was not just to relay unimportant news that I would be informed of sooner or later. Why do you come here and disturb my ship?" he stated the last question as a vexed command, rasplike voice holding a razor edge.

Vader slowly turned around, walking unhurriedly away from him with slow, purposeful steps. His basso vocalizer rang out, echoing in the wide expanse of the ship's bridge.

"Now, Cadmus, I know you are already quite aware of a little predicament we are both involved in…"

So, it has come to this. Cadmus immediately steeled himself, gathering the Force to his nerve endings, barring his psyche.

"…and it must be resolved. And we both know that there is only one way this will come to fruition…

In a whirl of motion, Vader whipped around, crimson lightsaber drawn and held aggressively.

"Your death."

Vader lunged at Cadmus, moving swiftly for his age, swinging the saber of pure energy in a wide, lateral arc, aiming for a clean slice across his abdomen. Cadmus rolled sharply to the left, utilizing the Force as a hammer, knocking Vader's legs out from beneath him. His adversary was ready, however, and did not fall. Cadmus activated his own lightsaber and charged, taking the offensive, slashing diagonally. His blow was immediately parried by Vader, and Cadmus felt a kick land squarely against his inner right knee. He swung in response, a left hook that took Vader by the temple, sending him reeling to the right.

"You're a fool, Vader! You cannot win!"

Pain erupting from his knee area, Cadmus propelled the Force to the fingertips of his left hand and released an acutely concentrated stream of Force Lightning into Vader. It enveloped his enemy, the strands of electrical energy searing his flesh and scorching his nerve endings. Vader was hapless against it, for he could not replicate the lightning through his prosthetics. His enemy howled in pain, his vocalizer cracking as he shrieked into it.

"Stop! Stop the pain! I will… I will negotiate!"

Vader dropped to his knees in agony.

There would be no bargaining. Cadmus took this opportunity, knowing his ameliorate-trained foe's moment of weakness was advantageous. He halted the lightning, sprinted forward, lightsaber raised to decapitate his kneeling enemy-

Vader leapt frenziedly to the right, rolling as he hit the ground. The quantity of pain Vader had felt had been dramatized, and Cadmus had fallen for the act. Vader's long arm flew up and connected mightily with Cadmus' head. He flew underneath it flatly, and landed on his back. His lightsaber skittered away harmless. The blow had been immensely powerful, thoroughly disorienting him. He took a precious second, using the Force to placate the internal vertigo…

Vader's foot slammed down upon his throat.

"Stupid boy!" his adversary shouted. "Did you think you would actually defeat me? I am infinitely more skilled than you!"

Vader increased the pressure on his throat.

Cadmus, in turn, let his constrained rage free.

Vader suddenly felt himself fly backwards with the force of an ionic cannon, sailing like a ragdoll across the bridge. Cadmus trailed him through the air, unbound in the Force, and unleashed a rapid succession of mighty blows with every limb he could use.

When they landed, together, Cadmus stood, breathing heavily after his taxing outburst of anger, while Vader lay as a crumpled, battered pile on the ground. His age must have caught up with him. Cadmus reached down, and with a single hand, lifted his nemesis off the ground by the neck.

Cadmus stared heatedly into the dented visor of Vader, and spoke with a voice deadly calm:

"You have made a grave mistake, you robotic fuck."

Vader coughed, still limp in his grip, and spoke, voice burdened with pain.

"No, boy. It is you who has made the mistake."

The nest sequence of events happened in a flash, and yet, time seemed to have slowed to a crawl. Vader, superior in training and possessing great lengths of endurance, threw Cadmus away with a burst of the Force. Cadmus landed gracelessly, and Vader was immediately on him. Imitating Cadmus' attack, he assailed the younger apprentice with a flurry of Force-driven strikes, so quick Cadmus could not react.

Soon, Cadmus was reduced to a quivering, bloodied pulp. Still, Vader did not stop. He raised his younger enemy into the air, grasping him tightly in the Force, and repeatedly slammed him onto the metal floor of the bridge. Intermittent snaps and cracks of various bones sounded between the collisions, and Vader felt his enemy grow faint.

Vader halted his blows, and dropped his adversary. He looked down at Cadmus, who would no doubt be recovering within moments, and held him down with an immeasurable amount of the Force.

"You do not belong here, Cadmus. I know who you are. You are no Sith. You are a mere boy," he hissed. "Intruding aliens are dealt with accordingly: they are returned to their native realm."

And with that, Darth Vader, one hand trained on Cadmus, turned, and with the other hand, did something that no Force-sensitive individual has been able to duplicate.

He ripped open the fabric of time and space.

Vader turned, strength already failing from the obvious amount of energy required to complete such a feat, and levitated Cadmus haphazardly off of the ground.

Cadmus fought back with his all his damaged might, but Vader expended his entire will with one push and overcame him.

Cadmus, in seemingly slow motion, flew directly toward the glowing rip in space and time. The anomaly seemed like a vacuum, and the air being drawn into it was somehow visible.

And in the mundane blink of the eye, Darth Cadmus entered the portal and disappeared.