A Logical Mind
Summary:
Lord Voldemort always congratulated himself to be the most logical being he ever met in his whole life. He always found an answer to everything. A clear cut solution for a mathematical mind. And yet, he stood there, a bloodied Harry Potter lying unconscious at his feet. For the first time in his life, the Dark lord felt utterly lost. He couldn't fathom what to do. [TIME TRAVEL]
If every thing goes according to my plan, there will be four parts: the question; the answer; the consequences; the end.
Little warning: english is not my mother tongue - I apologize in advance for any mistakes.
A Logical Mind
PART I - The Question
What to do?
Lord Voldemort was known to be a cold-blooded, cruel, ruthless wizard.
A Dark Lord, so dark that he would not even feel the shadow of a doubt when killing, nor regret when torturing. Let alone feel any kind of pity. Lord Voldemort was known to be insane, dangerous. Inhumane.
To his opponents, at least.
Lord Voldemort always congratulated himself to be the most logical being he ever met in his whole life. He never let his mind be clouded by some irrational thoughts. Unlike his foes and followers, he never experienced any dilemma since he reached adulthood. Whenever a problem arose, he would thoroughly weigh all possible solutions and outcomes in the formidable equation that was his conquest of the wizarding world. His genius brain would provide the best way to deal with the situation. He always found an answer to everything. A clear cut solution for a mathematical mind. Logic and strategy were what made him the greatest Dark Lord of the century, beside a tremendous amount of power, of course.
The Dark Lord smiled madly. Some were calling him an inhuman and cruel wizard, but he knew better. His mental faculties allowed him to think without bothering with pointless feelings. His lack of emotions made him not inhuman but logical. His cruelty was the best way to achieve his goals. Being feared by foes and followers alike meant being powerful. And power meant everything.
Voldemort looked at his wand resting on his large, refined desk. Fear... He could almost taste the sweetness of it. A year after the wizarding world had discovered his return, he inspired as much fear as during his first rise. Dumbledore's death had been a blow to their confidence. The sight of their Savior - an absurdly small teen with wide eyes full of terror - during the burial of the old fool just crashed any surviving hope. Too frail to inspire faith. An ocean of resignation and fear was what was left. In a few minutes, fear would melt into terror. He was relishing it.
Voldemort grabbed his wand and a scroll of paper. A complicated set of runes was running through the whole scroll, drawing a complex pattern. Terror was coming, he thought, before tapping softly the middle of the scroll with the tip of his wand. A wave of magic illuminated the runes one by one. A last hiss – Voldemort - and the scroll was suddenly on fire. Within a few seconds, the scroll was nothing but ashes. Sweet terror. Fear of a name increase the fear of the thing itself, said the old fool. How true he was. A manic laugh escaped the dark lord's lipless mouth.
The Taboo was in place.
Harry Potter was known to be the Savior of the light. A kind, fair, yet powerful light wizard. It was said that is magical abilities were beyond the great Dumbledore himself. His story was written in thirteen different history books, five focusing only on his persona. Young witches and wizards had been falling asleep, every night in the last decade, on the soft sound of theirs mothers voice: " Once upon a time, a baby named Harry Potter saved us of a bad wizard who must not named ...". They all dreamed of the very same thing: going to Hogwarts and meet their hero.
Oblivious to his fame, Harry Potter arrived on a beautiful day of september in Hogwarts. He was small. Smaller than every other first year, with eyes too big for his face. No one really noticed it. They were too busy trying to catch a glimpse of the infamous scar. After a few months observing his every move, the nervous excitation was gone. The students started to realize that Harry Potter, beside a very strange scar on his forehead, was an average first year. He showed no extraordinary skills during class, nor in the corridors or the common room. He was timid, introvert – he only had two friends - and he was small. Nothing more. Disappointed, they didn't bothered with him until the end of the year.
Suddenly, he ended up at the infirmary. Rumors started to build in the common rooms: "Have you heard?" "He faced the ghost of He-who-must-not-be-named - " "My brother said he summoned a giant lion -" " - a fire phoenix - " "- two-meter long sword in the heart of the beast - " "He banished the ghost forever - " " I heard he is glowing due to his power -".
The boy-who-lived was released from the care of the nurse, just on time to join them for their last meal in school. He entered in the Great Hall, almost hiding between the know-it-all and his redhead friend. No glowing savior, no fire phoenix on his shoulder. No confidence. The small boy was obviously nervous. He kept looking back, as if he was afraid that someone was following him. He was no hero.
During his second year however, Harry Potter showed his first unique gift. The epitome of the light could speak the language of Devil himself, he was a parsel. He was no hero and had dark abilities. It was not acceptable. Unconsciously betrayed, the students wanted to avenge their lost hope of a marvelous Harry Potter. The hate began. People were petrified wherever he was. Rumors, once again, spread in the school. If he was not a gryffondor warrior, then it should be him. The heir of Slytherin. The boy never defended himself. He would stare at the floor, and silently leave to his dorm. He looked even smaller.
Eventually, the petrifications stopped. No one knew what happened nor why it was safe again to be in the school, but Dumbledore told so. With no reason to fear the boy-who-lived, the hate slowly faded. After all, no one was afraid of a thirteen years old teen fainting in front of a Dementor. His third year went by with no major gossip, until the Triwizard tournament.
Harry Potter was selected as a champion for Hogwarts. How could this happen? He was no more than an average fourth year. How could he compete against the best students of Europe? Hate flared again. He was cheating. He was just an attention-seeker, always trying to get more fame and money. He had no moral. He would loose. Somehow, he survived the two first task. After his flight in a dragon den, he earned a bit more respect. He was still a small boy with huge green eyes ringed with fatigue, but maybe there was more than meet the eyes.
When he returned from Merlin knows where, with Cedric's corpse, claiming that the Dark Lord had returned, no one knew how to react. Afraid, most of the students followed the Prophet. Hate is difficult habit to forget, and they despised him for so long it was easy to continue. So they hated him, called him a liar, an attention-seeker. No one believed him.
When Voldemort was seen in the Ministry, they couldn't deny it anymore. He-who-must-not-be-named was back. For real. And Harry Potter had faced him, and was still alive. He had to have something special to survive, they said. He had to, otherwise who would save them?
With a renewed respect, they observed him going through his sixth year in Hogwarts. He survived to the killing curse aged one, after all. And he won the Triwizard tournament aged fourteen. That was proof of extraordinary skills. He was no longer timid nor introvert but a mature wizard , they said. He was small, but his big eyes were radiating power, they said. He looked constantly tired because Dumbledore was training him at night, they said. He was the One, the Savior, they said. He had to.
And then, Dumbledore was murdered. Their shattered hope focused even more on the Boy-who-lived. He was their last hope. They all went to the burial, mourning the Director. Harry Potter was there as well. His big eyes were full of barely contained tears. His whole body was screaming grief and fear. He appeared so vulnerable, so small. Too frail to inspire faith. Reality hit them hard.
He was no hero. They were at the Dark Lord's mercy. Alone.
Harry Potter was sitting on a swing. He was back in Privet Drive for the summer, once again. He was staring in front of him, oblivious to his surroundings. Deep in his thought, he was going back and forth, slowly.
He snorted.
The wizarding world just realized he was no hero, but he knew better. He never was one. They always were on their own. He remembered very well the rumors, the whispers in his back. They feared him, hated him, worshipped him before realizing he was no more than a human being. No hero, no Dark Lord in training, just a boy terrified in an hostile world.
Yes, he thought, he was terrified. He had always been. His first year, he spent most of his time believing that Snape was going to kill him. Or that he would be expelled and had to go back to the Dursley again. After the stone incident, he couldn't sleep properly for months. Every time he heard a faint sound, a cracking door, he was sure it was Voldemort's spirit getting his revenge, ready to take his life. As if this constant fear was not enough, he lived in a school where people were petrified for no reason. And he had to face a Basilisk and a young Voldemort. In addition of a spirit, Harry was now afraid of every single book he touched. Voldemort was there, lurking in the shadows, awaiting its time.
It finally happened. His return was the most traumatic moment in Harry's life. He remembered the terror he felt, being tied to a gravestone, witnessing the rebirth of his worst nightmare. The snake-like face emerging from the cauldron, staring at him with so much hate.
His death had no nose and red eyes.
Harry couldn't understand how he escaped that night. Nor could he understand how he survived without doing any panic attack during his fifth year. Fifth year, the grand finale of terror. Sirius' death hit him hard. Guilt and grief won over panic for a few moments before he heard it. The Prophecy of his own downfall. Each word was carved in his brain, constant reminder of his fate. He would be killed by a Dark Lord. How could he beat him? He had no hidden power, no weapon. He was just a sixteen years old wizard trying to survive. He was no hero.
One could think Harry was getting use to feel unsafe But he wasn't. Every threat was mining him. He could feel his mental barriers growing thinner every sleep-deprived night. The prophecy broke him beyond repair.
Too much terror for one mind to bear.
Harry didn't understand why and how he was still alive, one year after this revelation. But he knew one thing for sure: the Dark Lord would hunt him down. He would suffer, he would die. Soon.
Suddenly, two hands pushed Harry in his back.
He fell from the swing.
His left cheek hit the ground in a loud thump. Part of his glasses broke. Tiny pieces of glass entered his skin and his eye. So much pain.
"Little Potter is bleeding" said a happy voice.
Death Eater? Was he cornered? Harry panicked. No! He didn't want to die. He didn't want to face the Dark Lord. He would be tortured. Not the snake face. A wave of terror rushed through his veins. An outburst of pure magic left his body, propelling his attacker a few meters backward.
The park was silent again. Harry could hear his heart beating furiously in his chest. His attacker must have been knocked out by the outburst. He cautiously turned his head, trying to ignore the broken glass in his face. He focused painfully on the scene in front of him.
Through what was left of his glasses, he could see a blurry Dudley lying on a rocking horse. Harry gasped. He could see the head of the horse emerging from his cousin's body. Impaled by a rocking horse. He was dead.
Harry stared at the lifeless body for a long time, too numb to understand what happened.
A nervous laugh escaped his lips.
He would die soon. Not at the hand of Voldemort, no. Vernon was going to kill him first.
The Dark Lord felt a strange tickle behind his navel. Surprised, he wondered what was that sensation but the weird feeling was gone before he could identify it. Quickly dismissing it, Voldemort focused on the conversation once more. A few seconds later, the tickle returned, stronger. What was that? He wondered. The tickle became somewhat stronger. Suddenly, the Dark Lord felt a familiar hook behind his navel, and everything around him became blurry.
Shortly his surroundings became clear again. Lord Voldemort slowly glanced around him, his – so brilliant - mind racing to understand what the hell just happened.
The most feared wizard of Britain was now in a ridiculously ordinary muggle living-room. On his left, beside a few burning candles, was what appeared to be a huge coffin. The lid was up, revealing the dead body of a fat young man. A thin woman was sitting next to the coffin, a loving hand resting on the chest of the corpse. She seemed to be frozen by fear. Voldemort grinned, his snake-like face moving to reveal a forked tongue, tasting the panic that was building in her. The woman paled even more. She was on the verge of fainting. Voldemort suppressed a cold laugh. Useless muggle. So easy to impress. He turned around, his brain still trying to grasp what was happening. His eyes widened.
A huge man, twice as old and twice as fat as the dead one, was holding a baseball bat in the air, ready to strike. His face was distorted by a fury that the Dark Lord never witnessed before. Pure hatred. He was perfectly still, looking at him with defiant fear. Blood was dripping from the bat. Deafening thumps against a perfectly clean floor. In his porcine eyes, Voldemort could see a vicious battle between hate and fear. Hate was winning, Voldemort realized. He couldn't let that happen. A drop of blood lazily found its way at the end of the bat and fell. A soundless stunner hit human pig before the drop could attain the floor. A smirk appeared on Voldemort's face. Beside his brilliant mental faculties, Lord Voldemort was very proud that no one could catch him off guard. Ever. He was way too fast.
"Voldemort - "
It was no more than a whisper, but the Dark Lord froze, his eyes immediately at the feet of the stunned man. A boy was on the floor, lying in a puddle of blood. He was a total mess. A bloody one. Voldemort looked successively at the baseball bat, still in the muggle's hand, and at the boy. He wondered how it was possible to do so much damage on a body with a mere bat and no magic but quickly dismissed that thought. The boy was calling him. Suddenly, he understood the nagging sensation and the transportation: the Taboo had been transgressed.
"V-Voldemort -"
The boy's voice was soft, full of hope. Voldemort could feel something cold moving in his guts. The boy tried to lift his head up and let a painful sound escape his swollen lips. One of his eye couldn't open, but the other one was staring intently at the Dark Lord. Voldemort let out a gasp. This face, this green eyes... No. It couldn't be.
"I beg you... Kill me. I... I beg you - "
The whisper was no more. The boy was now unconscious in a puddle of blood. His own blood. The Dark Lord stared at him, unable to understand. Harry Potter had begged him. He wanted to die. He had begged him for death.
Voldemort was proud to never be caught off guard, and to have a solution for everything, thanks to his logical mind.
And yet, he stood there, in the middle of a muggle living-room, a bloodied Harry Potter lying unconscious at his feet.
For the first time in his life, the Dark lord felt utterly lost.
He couldn't fathom what to do.
End of Part I - The question.
I'm looking for a Beta: if you are interested, please let me know!