Chapter One
Eligit Tenebris
LIFE IS ABOUT CHOICES.
SOME WE REGRET, SOME WE'RE
PROUD OF. SOME WILL HAUNT US
FOREVER. THE MESSAGE IS: WE ARE
WHAT WE CHOOSE TO BE.
-GRAHAM BROWN.
He stared at the image in the window pane, it shone like a bloodless phantom back at him, emerald eyes glowing like beacons from under a sea of messy raven black locks. All around him the night was silent, clocking him in a blanket of darkness, the faint glow of a full moon radiated from behind a layer of murky grey clouds, the stars were blind to him peering up towards where they were hidden.
His mind was not silent; a raging storm of fire and lighting threatening to burst through his skull, a deep pounding echo of his heart spurred on the storm like the bashing of drums on a battlefield. For a fleeting moment he wished that it would still, for his heart to stop, just for a moment of blissful silence, just one moment; that was all he asked. Placing his forehead against the glass he felt an icy storm join the battle of fire, it cooled the flaring heat behind his pulsating scar.
Pushing his face into the coldness he closed his eyes and clenched his jaws; at that moment he felt so cold, a coldness that even the most eruptive volcano would not warm. The cursed scar seared his mind; a constant reminder of what he didn't have, for what was taken away from him, what he never had the chance to enjoy. It was the only cure for this coldness inside of him. A pressure built up behind his eyelids, he scrunched them even tighter, a silent scream left his lips, he curled into a tighter ball on the window seat as the memories of all those that had been taken from his flashed before his eyes in a blur of green light; a deathly light that would haunt his dreams for eternity. A tear fell.
It was with a blurred mind that he found himself dressed from his pyjamas into a pair of loose black jeans and shirt. He was stood in the centre of the room he had slept in every year since he first arrived at Hogwarts six years earlier; then life had been simpler, fighting three headed dogs named Fluffy, playing giant chess and racing around after keys with broken wings. When his nemesis was just a snowy white haired slytherin, when he was blind and innocent to the world of Dark Lords and Golden Boys.
He caught a glimpse of ginger between the red folds of bed curtains; beyond them laid his first friend. Ron Weasley, who he had journeyed into the hands of death with many times before; yet Ron did not understand what he understood, the pain of losing someone just before your eyes whilst you stood helpless to do anything. The ache that weighs down your heart, the hopelessness that you feel, a pain he never wanted him to feel.
Throwing on his cloak he slunk silently over the carpet towards the door, the floor silnet below his feet as he opened the door and slipped outside. The Gryffindor common room was deserted, moonlight flooded through under the curtains, the burning embers died in the large stone fireplace. Wand secure in his hand he crept over the floor boards and out of the portrait hole into the corridor.
Not bothering to cast a 'lumos' he made his way down the maze of corridors and moving staircases guided only by a faint moon glow that leaked through the windows. Before he knew it he had already passed through the main entrance, through the towering oak doors and into the blistering, finger chilling night. Making his way across the frost kissed grass, which crunched slightly beneath his feet, he passed Hagrid's hut, gentle puffs of smoke rose from the chimney up into the night. There was a soft orange fiery glow from behind the tatard, raggy curtains.
He carried on until he reached the edge of the wards, till he could feel the tingle of their power on the edge of his nose. With a deep breath he stepped outside their protection, turning as he did so to the giant castle; digging into his mind, to its very edge, he grasped hold of his connection with the Dark Lord. It called to him, like it had done countless times before; this time however he answered its call. With a crack the Wizarding World's Golden Boy left Hogwarts, never would he return.
Harry appeared just beyond the wards of Riddle Manor; the Manor loomed imposingly over him from where it was perched upon the highest hill in Little Hangleton, the village that rested down in the valley, he had seen it once before, three years earlier. The moon peaked out from behind the slate roof, the cloud cover thinner here and when he looked he could see the faint twinkle of stars above; the Manor looked deserted, broken windows and cracked wooden doors, the lawns un-kept, and a weed infested driveway.
Reaching out his hand he moved towards the wards; he felt their power, Voldemort's power, radiating towards him like lightning. They bustled with energy, he saw a glimmer of blue light flash before him.
He slipped his hand through the wards, felt their magic mixing with his own. Confident that there was no risk of pushing forward he stepped through them through to the other side. Beyond them the scene was very different; gone was the scene from a muggle horror film, instead replaced by a glamourous Manor. The stone walls were clean, the windows, no longer murky and fractured, shone in the white light. The grand doors were freshly painted, the driveway de-weeded and the lawns cut and treated. Now instead of being a relic abandoned to the cruel folds of time, it was inhabited, or well that was what could be guessed by the faint candle glow beyond a few windows.
His feet carried him up to the front door which opened before him; blindly he made his way through the manor, knowing exactly where to go, guided by the pull of his connection with the Dark Lord.
He paused at a set of grand dark oak doors, then they swooped open revealing a royal sized rectangled hall. A throne was set upon a raised dais at the far end. The walls were decorated with shades of slytherin green, black and silver, large arched gothic windows stretched from the floor to the arched ceiling, in perfect uniformed spacing. Three large silver chandeliers were suspended above the room, casting a candle lit glow onto the deep drown wooden flooring.
Harry paid little attention to all the small details as he made his way to where Voldemort was lounged upon the green and silver throne; the dark wizard was no longer snake like and ghostly; he was still pale but not deathly so, his skin looked healthy, he looked alive this time. His hair was a rich chocolate, the wavy strands were pushed back only a few sections falling forward. He looked much like the Tom Riddle that Harry had seen in the Chamber of Secrets all those years ago; his handsome features and his wise persona; but his eyes remained the same burning red which had haunted many nightmares, a hint to the darkness beneath.
When he reached the bottom of the stairs that led up to the throne he stopped. Then, suddenly, he kneeled, lowering his head:
"I surrender."
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