A/N: A plot bunny on fictionalley.org was 'what if Tom Riddle looked like
everyone else? What if he adopted Harry?' Thus my story idea was born –
nature versus nuture, the prophecy in all its variations, and Harry's own
feelings.
/
A cloud drifted lazily across the moon, inky dark against the white and the stars, tiny pinpricks of light, shone with cold brilliance. It was a clear night and very late; the occupants of the houses about were fast asleep and had been for hours. The houses were scattered about the street, as if a child had picked them up and tossed them down carelessly, each house with a distinct personality, higgledy-piggledy windows and shutters, and a cheerful look to them. The street wound itself, cat-like, between the houses, curling about them, cobbled and faded. The stones were well trodden; the feet of occupants of Godric's Hollow had trampled them on the way home for hundreds of years. The only things that marked out the pretty homes as those owned by muggles of the very new 1980's were the television aerials that stuck up from the roofs.
A small garden grew at the back and front of each home, roses grew over the doors and windows of some houses, michelmas daisies and pansies, and petunias in the gardens of others. Summer colours dotted each bed, bright splashes of pinks, purples, reds and yellows added to the general friendly appearance.
The hollyhocks in the front garden of number ten, Godric's Hollow were always much admired. They grew proud and tall, and the neighbours, those living at number eight always complimented the nice young man and his wife who lived there on their good hand with flowers. They were nodding in the light breeze of the summer night; a distinct chill settling over the little street.
But there was no house behind them. Number ten, Godric's Hollow, with the very bright red front door, lay in rubble, still warm. Half of it had gone completely, piles of bricks and stone and wood, and Lily Potter's rosewood bureau smashed on the ground. A few beams still held up the other half of the house, blackened with smoke of a fire that had never been there. An Aga, tempermental old beast that always went out whenever a wind went down the chimney, but still much loved by Lily as it was always hot when a cake needed to go in, still stood.
When the neighbours woke, or the milkman came by in the dim and drowsy hours of the very early morning, they would go closer to the was-house, and peer at the bodies that you could just see, lying under the rubble. The Potters' eyes were wide and staring, the nice young man had fallen in front of his wife, protectively. A long piece of red hair caught in the moonlight from under a long wooden beam.
But as yet, no one had woken, and the muggles, fast asleep, did not see the fading Dark Mark hanging in the air above the Potters' house, nor did they see the three people appear as if from nowhere, who clustered at the corner of the street, one crying openly. She covered her face with her hands, knocking her spectacles sideways, and sobbed brokenly, burying her face in the shoulder of the wizard, unashamed of her emotion as she would be on another day.
"I can't believe it, Albus," she said tearfully, half looking back at the remains of number ten, and then hiding her eyes once more, fearful. "How did he find them? How did he kill them?"
The old wizard patted her back gently, and proffered a handkerchief kindly. Professor McGonagall took it, and after dabbing at her eyes, gave it a hearty blow. Although his blue eyes were usually friendly, with a twinkle that those who knew him often recognised, they were steely, and a grim look had entered them.
"I'm afraid I do not know, Minerva," he said quietly. He looked at the third wizard. A younger man, he appeared to be in his late thirties. His dark hair, normally sleek and tidy, was mussed and hung about his face. He had an intense look in his grey eyes, watching Dumbledore and McGonagall from a hooded, speculative face. He blinked suddenly, and a gentler, more tender expression slid over his face as he looked down on the white bundle of blankets in his arms. The year-old Harry Potter slept on unconcerned, safe in the Minister for Magic's grasp.
"It's a bad business, a very bad business," Dumbledore continued, watching the third wizard. "He seems to be quite peaceful there with you, Tom." The Minister for Magic looked up, with a smile that appeared and went like quicksilver.
"Yes," he said apologetically. "There were a lot of children about when I was small. I'm used to them." His expression grew dark, and he glared at the Potters' house as if it personally offended him.
"What I can't understand is how he knew," he stated determinedly, raising his chin to look at the house again, in consternation. "I mean, I know you have your ways, Dumbledore-"
The older wizard nodded to acknowledge the observation, and waited quietly.
"How did he find them? How did he break through them? What was it you used to protect them?" he asked, finally, sounding as if curiosity getting the better of him. Dumbledore stroked his beard a moment before answering.
"I used old magic," he said shortly, looking at McGonagall. "One that could not be broken unless someone betrayed them."
The expression on the other wizard's face was pure fury. "And who dared that?" he demanded. "Who dared to betray them? James and Lily were the best young people to come out of Hogwarts in a long time, Dumbledore. They hadn't even been out of school longer than two years." He cast a glance back down at Harry in his arms, and tenderly tucked a corner of blanket about the baby's face.
"I know, Tom," Dumbledore said tiredly, as though he was nearing exhaustion. "I know. The traitor will be dealt with, I promise you. We can do nothing to help them, however. They are dead, and that's the last of it. I have arranged for Hagrid to take Harry here to his aunt and uncle's tomorrow." He looked at the baby, a bitter smile hovering on his lips.
"He shall, at least, have no memory of what occurred tonight."
"Just another orphan because of Voldemort," McGonagall said suddenly, scathing. Tom shook his head suddenly, passion rising in his voice as he spoke.
"Let me take him." Dumebledore regarded him with surprise, blue eyes questioning the younger man. The other wizard shook his head impatiently.
"I know that you'll have spells and enchantments set up, but none of that means anything. I can take Harry," he said persuasively. "I can look after him. My home is well protected, because of my position I am always guarded. With me, he will be in the public's eye and looked after. Oh, you can lay down your spells and protection on him as well, but I can take care of him. He'll be well looked after, and he won't forget who he is, or who his parents were." He held the baby closer, cuddling him. "Please?"
"All right," Dumbledore answered after a few moments of careful consideration. "I shall keep a watch on him. Voldemort shall be watching him and in these dark times, anything could happen. Both of you go on, I'll deal with the muggles, and this."
Still sniffing, and wiping her eyes with Dumbledore's handkerchief, Professor McGonagall apparated, disappearing into thin air. Dumbledore stalked back to where number ten had been, determination in his stride. Tom Riddle, Minister for Magic, lifted back the blanket to see Harry Potter's face. The baby slumbered peacefully, his pale skin unmarked, his head already covered with thick black hair, much like James'.
"Hello, Harry," Voldemort whispered to his adopted son.
/
A/N: And so it begins. Next chapter, Harry at Hogwarts.
/
A cloud drifted lazily across the moon, inky dark against the white and the stars, tiny pinpricks of light, shone with cold brilliance. It was a clear night and very late; the occupants of the houses about were fast asleep and had been for hours. The houses were scattered about the street, as if a child had picked them up and tossed them down carelessly, each house with a distinct personality, higgledy-piggledy windows and shutters, and a cheerful look to them. The street wound itself, cat-like, between the houses, curling about them, cobbled and faded. The stones were well trodden; the feet of occupants of Godric's Hollow had trampled them on the way home for hundreds of years. The only things that marked out the pretty homes as those owned by muggles of the very new 1980's were the television aerials that stuck up from the roofs.
A small garden grew at the back and front of each home, roses grew over the doors and windows of some houses, michelmas daisies and pansies, and petunias in the gardens of others. Summer colours dotted each bed, bright splashes of pinks, purples, reds and yellows added to the general friendly appearance.
The hollyhocks in the front garden of number ten, Godric's Hollow were always much admired. They grew proud and tall, and the neighbours, those living at number eight always complimented the nice young man and his wife who lived there on their good hand with flowers. They were nodding in the light breeze of the summer night; a distinct chill settling over the little street.
But there was no house behind them. Number ten, Godric's Hollow, with the very bright red front door, lay in rubble, still warm. Half of it had gone completely, piles of bricks and stone and wood, and Lily Potter's rosewood bureau smashed on the ground. A few beams still held up the other half of the house, blackened with smoke of a fire that had never been there. An Aga, tempermental old beast that always went out whenever a wind went down the chimney, but still much loved by Lily as it was always hot when a cake needed to go in, still stood.
When the neighbours woke, or the milkman came by in the dim and drowsy hours of the very early morning, they would go closer to the was-house, and peer at the bodies that you could just see, lying under the rubble. The Potters' eyes were wide and staring, the nice young man had fallen in front of his wife, protectively. A long piece of red hair caught in the moonlight from under a long wooden beam.
But as yet, no one had woken, and the muggles, fast asleep, did not see the fading Dark Mark hanging in the air above the Potters' house, nor did they see the three people appear as if from nowhere, who clustered at the corner of the street, one crying openly. She covered her face with her hands, knocking her spectacles sideways, and sobbed brokenly, burying her face in the shoulder of the wizard, unashamed of her emotion as she would be on another day.
"I can't believe it, Albus," she said tearfully, half looking back at the remains of number ten, and then hiding her eyes once more, fearful. "How did he find them? How did he kill them?"
The old wizard patted her back gently, and proffered a handkerchief kindly. Professor McGonagall took it, and after dabbing at her eyes, gave it a hearty blow. Although his blue eyes were usually friendly, with a twinkle that those who knew him often recognised, they were steely, and a grim look had entered them.
"I'm afraid I do not know, Minerva," he said quietly. He looked at the third wizard. A younger man, he appeared to be in his late thirties. His dark hair, normally sleek and tidy, was mussed and hung about his face. He had an intense look in his grey eyes, watching Dumbledore and McGonagall from a hooded, speculative face. He blinked suddenly, and a gentler, more tender expression slid over his face as he looked down on the white bundle of blankets in his arms. The year-old Harry Potter slept on unconcerned, safe in the Minister for Magic's grasp.
"It's a bad business, a very bad business," Dumbledore continued, watching the third wizard. "He seems to be quite peaceful there with you, Tom." The Minister for Magic looked up, with a smile that appeared and went like quicksilver.
"Yes," he said apologetically. "There were a lot of children about when I was small. I'm used to them." His expression grew dark, and he glared at the Potters' house as if it personally offended him.
"What I can't understand is how he knew," he stated determinedly, raising his chin to look at the house again, in consternation. "I mean, I know you have your ways, Dumbledore-"
The older wizard nodded to acknowledge the observation, and waited quietly.
"How did he find them? How did he break through them? What was it you used to protect them?" he asked, finally, sounding as if curiosity getting the better of him. Dumbledore stroked his beard a moment before answering.
"I used old magic," he said shortly, looking at McGonagall. "One that could not be broken unless someone betrayed them."
The expression on the other wizard's face was pure fury. "And who dared that?" he demanded. "Who dared to betray them? James and Lily were the best young people to come out of Hogwarts in a long time, Dumbledore. They hadn't even been out of school longer than two years." He cast a glance back down at Harry in his arms, and tenderly tucked a corner of blanket about the baby's face.
"I know, Tom," Dumbledore said tiredly, as though he was nearing exhaustion. "I know. The traitor will be dealt with, I promise you. We can do nothing to help them, however. They are dead, and that's the last of it. I have arranged for Hagrid to take Harry here to his aunt and uncle's tomorrow." He looked at the baby, a bitter smile hovering on his lips.
"He shall, at least, have no memory of what occurred tonight."
"Just another orphan because of Voldemort," McGonagall said suddenly, scathing. Tom shook his head suddenly, passion rising in his voice as he spoke.
"Let me take him." Dumebledore regarded him with surprise, blue eyes questioning the younger man. The other wizard shook his head impatiently.
"I know that you'll have spells and enchantments set up, but none of that means anything. I can take Harry," he said persuasively. "I can look after him. My home is well protected, because of my position I am always guarded. With me, he will be in the public's eye and looked after. Oh, you can lay down your spells and protection on him as well, but I can take care of him. He'll be well looked after, and he won't forget who he is, or who his parents were." He held the baby closer, cuddling him. "Please?"
"All right," Dumbledore answered after a few moments of careful consideration. "I shall keep a watch on him. Voldemort shall be watching him and in these dark times, anything could happen. Both of you go on, I'll deal with the muggles, and this."
Still sniffing, and wiping her eyes with Dumbledore's handkerchief, Professor McGonagall apparated, disappearing into thin air. Dumbledore stalked back to where number ten had been, determination in his stride. Tom Riddle, Minister for Magic, lifted back the blanket to see Harry Potter's face. The baby slumbered peacefully, his pale skin unmarked, his head already covered with thick black hair, much like James'.
"Hello, Harry," Voldemort whispered to his adopted son.
/
A/N: And so it begins. Next chapter, Harry at Hogwarts.