Note: AU. No Horcruxes. Ambiguous timeline. Non-date specific. Curse back-lash doesn't kill Voldemort that night. Extreme overpowering of moratorium abilities. Basically nonsense.
Moratorium:
If there was one thing that stood true throughout the ages, it was that Wizards always viewed themselves as better than the mundane magicless folk who made up the majority of the world's population. Some were obvious about it, with pureblood propaganda and anti-muggle attitudes. Others didn't even consciously realise they were doing it, basking in the power and lengthened lifespan gifted to them by their magic. In some ways it was simply a fact. Magic had immunised the magical people against many mundane illnesses – but there were other diseases that could only be caught by wizards as well.
They looked down on muggles for their constant wars while fighting those of their own.
It was an ingrained arrogance that had never been shaken.
Until it was.
Tied up in their own world they wouldn't have noticed the unprecedented phenomena which occurred in South America and Tokyo, if it hadn't been for a sudden change in their society and the world at large.
Astronomers were struck speechless by the sudden disappearance of the known stars.
A scattered group of wizards found they could no longer access their magic. It was random, and no connections could be drawn between the victims of the phenomenon.
It caused a stir. The world had changed the rules on them and the muggles had gained the upper hand while they panicked. Wizardkind was no longer the higher power. Muggles were cropping up across the globe with powers that couldn't be explained, and didn't even resemble magic in its current known forms. They were outmatched in brawn and brain. It was the start of a new age. The age of the Contractors.
Seventeen year old Harry Potter sat on the back doorstep of Number Four Privet Drive, basking lazily in the heat of the sun. It was his birthday. Like usual it was a quiet affair, as he had never really gotten into big birthday celebrations.
For the first ten years he'd spent living with his aunt and uncle his birthday had passed by unacknowledged in a haze of discontent and misdirected anger. It was as though his eleventh birthday had been some sort of turning point in his relationship with his relatives, because they started warming up to him when whatever it was they seemed to have been expecting failed to happen. Now he received a few presents and some well-wishes in the morning, and was left to his own devices for the rest of the day. He appreciated that they hadn't attempted to compensate for those ignored years. It would have made things awkward if they had.
Stretching out Harry leaned against the door, watching the slight breeze race through his aunt's garden. It was just after lunch, and the sun was high in the sky above him. His thoughts quieted, dying away from the forefront of his mind, eyes fixed, unblinking, on his aunt's favourite begonias.
Blinking slowly Harry frowned, noting the change in light in the garden. He could hear his blood rushing in his ears. Climbing to his feet he scanned the backyard, eyes flicking from side to side behind his glasses. He almost missed it. In fact, he did. It was his aunt's shocked gasp as she walked past the kitchen window that drew his attention to it. Frost covered the glass of the window, and the plants directly to the left and right of Harry were… frozen. There was no other way to put it. Completely frozen. As in hit it and it might shatter.
"What the…?"
Sitting before his legs gave out from shock Harry tried to process what had happened. He ignored the sound of his aunt hurrying away from the kitchen, lost in his thoughts.
Ten years ago the world changed. He remembered it vividly. The panic when the stars disappeared was what had affected him personally, because, as things developed, the not very well kept secret of people with strange powers known as Contractors didn't mean much to a seven year old kid. But he knew now. There were a few active contractors in London, and they were the flashy kind, so it was hard to keep them away from the public eye. Contractors were real, and they were dangerous.
"It wasn't me."
Instant denial. Contractors had prices, they paid for their powers. He'd seen it. If he had powers he would know.
… wouldn't he?
A shiver raced down his spine and he shook his head angrily. No way. This wasn't happening.
That evening his aunt approached him as he stared moodily out the living room window, a shoebox held loosely in her hands. It was apparent she didn't like whatever the box contained.
"Harry," she called softly, coming to a stop to the side of Harry's preferred armchair. "Given the… uh, the current situation, being what it is, I think it might be for the best if you read what's in here."
"Aunt Petunia?"
Harry wrinkled his nose in confusion. She sighed heavily, arranging herself on the couch opposite.
"It has to do with your parents. Listen. I know Vernon and I haven't always made things easy for you. This might explain a little bit as to why."
Shrugging – nothing could hit him harder than the events of the past week, surely – he accepted the box and lifted the lid. He pulled out a handful of letters written on a strange sort of paper. Scanning them quickly he frowned. Most of them were to his aunt from someone called Albus Dumbledore, and there was some weird stuff in them. Pre-South America weird. Magic and murder. Prophecy.
Putting them down Harry stared at Petunia, one eyebrow raised.
"After it became apparent that you didn't have any magic – a side-effect from the Gates, Dumbledore thought – we decided we would never bring it up with you. Only now, everything has gone to Hell, and I don't know what to do anymore. I decided it was time to let you decide for yourself."
Nodding absently Harry ran a hand through his hair, shoving the letters back in the box. He didn't want to read them any further.
"I understand. Thank you for sharing this with me."
Dismissing the box Harry headed upstairs, turbulent thoughts racing through his mind.
Magic may have been thrown through a loop, but not everyone had been adversely affected by The Incident. Dark clouds of a different sort hovered over Magical Britain. The Dark Lord Voldemort had pulled himself together and asserted his dominance over Magical Britain amongst the confusion brought on by the Contractors.
No one had thought about the prophesied saviour in many years, because it was common knowledge that Harry Potter was a squib. He wouldn't be saving anyone.
And they were so right and yet so wrong.
Ten years after the birth of the New Age Voldemort held a grand speech on the steps of the once impressive goblin stronghold that was Gringotts Wizarding Bank. The archway connecting Diagon Alley with muggle London had long since been sealed off – it was by no means an effective manner of keeping the two worlds separate, but it was a warning nonetheless, one that people generally heeded, because punishment was harsh.
He stood on the white steps, clad in a tailored suit and fancy robes of a deep green trimmed with glinting silver, arms spread wide as he watched people gather before him. Even after all the years he'd spent in power it still gave Voldemort a rush to see them obediently following his every whim and wish.
Once the streets were packed with people he gestured with one pale, elegant finger, and his second in command, Lucius Malfoy, brought out their guest of honour. Bedraggled and dirty, weary and defeated, the once powerful Albus Dumbledore was pushed to his knees beside the Dark Lord, clad in ragged dirty grey robes, charmed chains wrapped around his wrists and ankles. His blue eyes no longer held any of their infamous spark. They were dead and dull, just the way Voldemort liked it.
"You see before you the last person to fight against me, defeated at last. He once thought himself better than me, but I have proved him wrong in his delusions once and for all. Truly a momentous achievement for this, the anniversary of my rule."
Voldemort smirked darkly, lips tugged up in a cruel façade of benevolence.
At the farthest reaches of his mind he noticed someone attacking the wards on the Leaky Cauldron, but he ignored it easily, brushing it off as insignificant. Even if someone did rip through it, they would achieve nothing from it.
"You have seen with your own eyes what has become of the muggles these last years, and indeed of some of us as well. I'm glad that you realised the sensibility of my plans when you did, or I would have been forced into much more bloodshed. Sealing ourselves off from those filthy creatures was truly for the best."
A dull murmur of assent rushed up from the amassed crowd, and Voldemort nodded approvingly.
His speech continued on in this fashion and, as engrossed by it as he was, he failed to see the head of black hair pushing its way through the crowd, a trail of ice and destruction following in the figure's wake.
It wasn't until someone screamed, clutching at their arm which no longer had a hand – the hand ripped off and crushed underfoot by the newcomer.
Startled from his smug complacence Voldemort straightened once more, focussing fully on the approaching figure. It was a boy, a young man, dressed in muggle clothes – jeans and ratty trainers and a hoody – who had scruffy black hair. His hands hung at his sides, and anything they touched froze instantly. The briefest shadow of a frown passed Voldemort's face as he watched.
Then the boy looked up.
Blank, empty forest green eyes, seeing but not processing, stared up at him from a lightly tanned face. And sitting on his forehead was a scar of lightning.
It was Harry Potter.
If the struggles to his left were any indication, Dumbledore had also realised the identity of the volatile newcomer, but unlike himself, Dumbledore did not appear to have grasped the reality of the situation. All he clung to was a long-forgotten prophecy and the identity of the man before them. He did not truly see what was happening. Where Dumbledore saw a saviour, Voldemort saw a mindless beast.
As Potter continued his approach Voldemort took a moment to glance up at the sky. Long ago you could only see the stars at night, but now, if you knew what to look for, they were everywhere. Burning brightly above them was a star, one that appeared on the verge of Supernova. His attention flickered back to Potter and he suddenly understood why it was that he felt no magic coming from the boy, despite his actions.
It was not magic.
He was one of them.
But worse.
Harry Potter was a Moratorium.
And it seemed like Voldemort was the only one who knew what that meant.
Shifting on the stairs Voldemort positioned himself behind the oblivious Dumbledore, situating the man as a barrier between himself and the whirlwind of ice and destruction that Potter had become. The safest path of action would be to flee, but despite the carnage in the square there still remained a large number of people, watching on from the side-lines once they realised that Potter wasn't going out of his way to attack them. Unintentional though it likely was, it was a challenge to his leadership. If he backed down in the face of this unprecedented threat, it would be all the weakness needed to spark the light of rebellion back into the masses.
He cursed once more his failure to kill the boy all those years ago.
Voicing a warning was fruitless – the madness within the boy would not listen to reason, otherwise he would never have made it as far as he had.
Removing his wand from his sleeve Voldemort tested the waters, firing off a binding spell towards the teen. The very magic of the spell froze instantly when it neared his body, dropping to the ground and shattering on impact.
Potter's tanned skin was developing a sickly pale-blue tinge, and his fingers were tipped with frost.
The world has gone truly mad, Voldemort thought to himself, torn between amazement and horror at the unprecedented feat. The power of a Moratorium was truly destructive, and unrepentant, but it lacked any sort of control, and that was why Voldemort, despite his love of power, stayed far away from the unpredictable abilities. Power-hungry though he may be, he was not self-destructive by any stretch of the imagination.
Putting his focus into a stronger spell he tossed a blood boiling curse at Potter, and was only vaguely surprised when the same thing happened again.
He was mere steps away from Dumbledore now, the ice that spread from his feet already licking the bottom of the old wizard's tattered robes. Dumbledore stared up at him in fevered awe, not even aware enough to react when his body was flash-frozen, Potter shoving him out of his way and ignoring the resultant shattering.
In the streets a fearsome cry rose up, because what sort of saviour killed the leader of the Light without a second thought, or so much as a pause?
Eyes narrowed in anger Voldemort took a single step back, readying himself to fight or flee at a moment's notice. If he was lucky Potter would self-destruct before reaching him – it wasn't difficult to see happening, not with the way his body was freezing from the outside in even as he approached. His hands were dark with frostbite and his lips deathly pale.
"Potter," he warned, despite knowing the pointlessness of his endeavour. "If you can hear me, you'd best turn around and leave this place immediately. I don't need to deal with your frozen ashes and the fallout from PANDORA."
As expected, Potter only stared blankly, completely unresponsive.
Voldemort was just about ready to flee, reputation be damned, when Potter lashed out, faster than a half-frozen man should be able to. His arm flung out in front of him, closing the remaining distance between the two enemies, and that tiny touch, the brush of fingers across Voldemort's robes, was all it took for his plans to come crashing down around his ears.
It was over in seconds. As though a blizzard had suddenly blown through the alley, Voldemort was covered head to toe in ice. Above them a star pulsed madly, and began to fall. Harry Potter stared at his dead fingers, eyes unseeing. The crowd shouted and jeered, and some threw spells at the frozen form of their oppressor.
The power faded from Harry's veins as his heart slowed to a stop, blood frozen in its tracks. MI6 agents swarmed the alley, but it was too late to accomplish anything.
A gentle wind flowed through the street, and Harry Potter's body disintegrated, tiny ice particles floating away on the breeze.