A/N: After reading so many of these fics I decided to try one of my own and see if I could match up to some of the brilliant pieces on here. There will be influences from other fics, but I will try and ask before using any of them. I am aiming to write a multipart story aiming at a trilogy but maybe more depending on how well the later ideas develop.
As you can guess by it being on this site, I do not own Harry Potter or any of the ideas or characters. I'm just playing with the world created by JK Rowling.
Chapter 1: Prologue
The mud squelched under his feet, rain digging furrows alongside his sunken footprints. The storm raged as lightning lit up the sky. The intermittent flashes being his only source of light, his eyes darted around looking for any sign of life on the moors.
He trudged on, his cloak moulded to his body, yet despite the icy wind he did not shiver or shake, merely continued resolutely to the top of the distant hill. His last destination.
As he crested the hill, the lighting flashed once more. What it revealed, stopped him in his tracks. In the small depression between hills, a man cloaked in deep crimson stood, sword hanging limply, surrounded by the mutilated corpses of the royal patrol. His hands left his cloak, which unwrapped to reveal a clenched first wreathed in dancing white flames. In his upturned right hand, a golden spell materialised, poised to throw.
Slowly the figure turned, revealing his piercing emerald eyes and a cold smirk, the fireball was flung through the air. He drew his arm back to launch his spear, before horror overtook him. Sharp pain tore through his shoulder as he watched his arm drop to the floor, lying limply next to him as the spear flickered out of existence. He looked up realising he'd lost the crimson cloaked demon, before his eyes met emerald and his world went black.
Sword returning to its master's hand, his emerald eyes looked down at his former schoolmate. They had never crossed outside of quidditch, but Warrington had quickly made a name for himself after the event, supporting the puppet government and being one of it's most brutal enforcers. His fire had claimed the lives of his friends and had scarred the face of his sister, Lucy.
His features hardened, pain brought on by the memories, showing through the Hatred etched onto his face. His sword descended, burying itself in the ground as Warrington's head rolled away, down the hill to join his companions in their mutilation.
He pulled his emotions back behind his shields, replacing them with a cold, blank mask. The storm faded as his muscles uncoiled and he disappeared as the last cloud passed in front of the setting sun.
A shadow flickered over the porch of a modest cottage on the outskirts of a small village. From out of it, Harry stepped, the crimson cloak falling from his shoulders to float onto a hook. The door swung silently open, framing him against the blood red evening sky, as he padded up the stairs sliding the door shut behind him. Shedding his clothes, he eased himself into bed, as his wife's arms wrapped around him, pulling him down to her. He closed his eyes, a small smile on his face, and he dreamed of how it all begun with a tournament, a dragon and an apology.