This site only gives you 384 characters to write a summary, so I'm going to put more information about my story here.
This story was made for a writing prompt that basically wanted a Drarry fic where Neville is the boy who lived. But it hardly even follows the prompt anymore. I think it's my dark mind - it feeds on blood and death and the sorrow of little children.
In this story, Neville is the boy who lived. He's also a bit of a prat. There is also an OC, who you will meet in chapter 2.
Besides Harry, Draco, Hermione and Pansy, there are some other main characters in my story. Severus Snape and Blaise Zabini become very important later on. And, with other characters come some minor pairings such as Severus/Pomfrey, RW/HG, and BZ/PP.
There is some slash,but, honestly, not that much. In my opinion, the plot is always more important than romance, and it will always come first in my stories.
Anyway, I hope you enjoy it!
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Prologue.
Green.
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To Mr. Potter, the boy in the cupboard-under-the-stairs, the boy-who-lived, the Savior of the Wizarding World:
Please come meet me in the Department of Mysteries. I will be there at 6:00 p.m. tomorrow. I have some information you will likely want to know.
(PS: I wasn't sure which title you prefer these days, so I listed all of them.)
Sincerely,
Friend of SB (Padfoot, Snuffles, godfather, friend).
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Eighteen Years Earlier/Eighteen Hours Later
Oh, green.
Just the thought sent electricity up his spine. Little prickles on the back of his neck. Stars in his eyes. It even made him smile, wide, with teeth. Yellow, molding teeth.
Beside him, Wormtail shuddered.
Useless. He was useless.
Pettigrew would have to die someday.
But Voldemort ignored him. There were sparks in his belly and in his head, and the delicious fire at the tips of his fingers. Something resembling excitement, happiness, even. He didn't feel happiness anymore, these were just the side-effects. Chemicals running around in his brain. Nevertheless, Voldemort grinned, and Pettigrew shuddered.
Each step he took made the happiness more intense. He licked his lips. The light at the top of the stairs went out and then burst into flame. The pictures were suddenly ripped into pieces. A vase crashed onto the floor, and then the pieces flew out of the windows and exploded. The very shadows trembled. His wand dangled from between his fingers, because he hardly even needed it. Voldemort laughed. He loved this power.
There was a row of doors at the top of the stairs. (Which were on fire.) "Which one?" he demanded. The killing curse was on the tip of his tongue, and they knew it. No one spoke. The hooded death eaters waited behind him like cowards.
"It's a simple question," he hissed, nastily, turning to glare at them, watching them cower before him.
Dolohov kicked open a door. An empty bedroom. "Next," Voldemort said, his high-pitched voice scratching the walls. The paint was scraped from the ceiling, the Dark Mark carved into the walls. Suddenly, all his Death Eaters found that their noses were bleeding. They started moving much faster.
The doors were all kicked open. Voldemort destroyed them with glee. And then, finally, he heard the scream. High and shrill and stupid. From the last door. He swept into the room, barely noticing how the pictures and the stuffed animals exploded, cackling, the killing curse already forming into words. "Avada Kedavra!" he laughed, and laughed, and the beautiful green light shot from his fingers.
And then Frank Longbottom was dead, with his wand in his hand.
The screams died with him, but Voldemort knew where they were. Huddled in the closet like cowards. Voldemort smiled at Longbottom's frozen face, and his body shattered into little pieces and melted into the floor,
The closet door blew up. Voldemort didn't even remember casting the spell. There was power in his fingertips, anything he wished to die, died, instantly. The clothes were on fire. Everything burned. To them, it must have looked like hell on earth.
Alice just shrieked stupidly, uselessly. "Not him! Not Neville!"
Voldemort just laughed in her face. The words spilled from his lips, he couldn't have stopped it if he tried. (Of course, he never tried.) Avada Kedavra. And Alice lay on the floor, dead, her face full of pure terror. Her body burst like a balloon and turned to dust.
The Longbottom runt, a ugly fat thing, fell uselessly onto the floor, where it lay, squealing and crying like a baby pig.
Voldemort didn't even have to think. He laughed and pointed his want at it. "Avada Kedavra!" he shouted, laughing.
It was like fire.
Voldemort screamed as his body was destroyed. His skin was ripped to shreds like paper. He was burning, he was electricity, he was being pulled out of his body like a snake shedding its skin. Tearing, ripping at him like a vicious werewolf. He screamed.
Then he was gone.
Oh, green.
And the Death Eaters, cowards that they were, disappeared in an instant. Twenty loud pops and suddenly Neville was alone, crying in the burning closet, with a lightning scar on his forehead.
Neville Longbottom.
The boy who lived.
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Thanks for reading! Please review :)
Next chapter: the Hogwarts express, handshakes, and Trevor the toad.