Chapter 1)
The Arrival
The room was medium-sized, room enough to fit in the throne on which he sat, a fireplace which housed the ornate hearth rug where Nagini was peacefully resting, and other such luxurious comforts. From his position at the throne, he utilized the intimidation easily granted by his red slits to gaze expectantly at his servants, the group that kneeled respectfully, albeit nervously, at his feet. The collection was of men and one woman, and his menacing orbs bored down into. All shivered involuntarily, not daring to look at the man, no, creature in which they were in willing servitude of. Instead, they chose to gaze at his attention-grabbing silver and green throne, as if the serpents that bedecked it could offer them comfort; they were met with disappointment.
"What have you brought for me? Rodolphus?" The question rung in the air, slicing through the thick tension emitted from the monster's nervous followers. The servant who was invited to speak stole a few anxious glances at his companions before clearing his throat, preparing to articulate his findings.
"My Lord, the potent force you have spoken of sensing over the past couple of days has been discovered by your followers as requested." He paused for a moment before continuing at Lord Voldemort's impatient nod. "I assure you, My Lord, that what we recovered, however, is nothing short of shocking-"
"Do not make me wait, Lestange." The cold, chilling command was nothing short of a menacing order. The servant's uneasy gulp resonated through the dank chamber quite easily.
"Please forgive me, My Lord. We will present you with our findings this instant, as you commanded." Rodolphus Lestrange and the rest of the Death Eaters stepped to the side quickly - in sure fear of their master's wrath - allowing a clear path to the door.
Abruptly, the double doors that served as an entrance to the chamber opened. A young man, looking not a day over 17, waltzed inside the room, before doing the unthinkable; he locked eyes with the red-eyed demon himself, Lord Voldemort. His jet-black hair and handsome looks reminded The Dark Lord strongly of someone in his past, someone he seemingly could not place. The boy swept into the chamber with a familiar grace only he himself could have possessed, and this alone unnerved the previously unshakable Dark Lord.
"Ah, well, you sure do look different." his casual tone further alarmed Voldemort. "But I sense your power; it is great, almost as good as myself and the others."
If he had any, Lord Voldemort, the most feared warlock of the century, would have raised an inquiring eyebrow at his followers and the arrogant young individual who stood before him. The servants looked petrified, maybe for the boy who looked upon their master as if he was beneath him, or maybe just for themselves for bringing him here. Before the Dark Lord could curse either them or the rude and obnoxious teen into sure oblivion, the teen made a beckoning motion and whistled loudly, causing Nott to flinch at the sudden vibration. Stepping through the ornate entrance of his hall, three wizards studied their surroundings before locking eyes with Voldemort as the boy had done just moments before. As farfetched as it sounded, these wizards appeared even uglier than the snake-faced Lord Voldemort, who currently sat shocked atop of his throne. Some of the appearances The Dark Lord recognized as the next transformation in power after his own, some of which he was either wary to go through with or he was dispelled before he could try. The boy was right. He could sense the almost palpable strength resonating off the warlocks.
These creatures were indeed powerful.
The boy, who had been intently observing the entrance with a smirk on his handsome face, turned back to the shell-shocked Dark Lord.
"Allow us to introduce ourselves. I am Tom Riddle, more commonly known as Lord Voldemort. He is Lord Voldemort, and he is also Lord Voldemort."
The silence that met the boy's words was deafening. 'Rodolphus was correct,' the Dark Lord noted silently, as this was indeed most unexpected. After all, who in the world would expect four copies of themselves to appear out of thin air?
"Pleased to meet you. What is the meaning of your visit?" His calm tones did not betray the bewilderment he felt and slight tinge of... he couldn't be sure as he hadn't felt it in so long, but it felt a lot like, dare he say it...
Fear
A yellow-eyed creature who Lord Voldemort identified as the result of the Ritual of Tadlacus answered the posed question.
"To take over the world, of course." Instead of his own chilling tones, this Voldemort's tone was booming and powerful, laced with an inner fire. Tom's face mysteriously closed up at their mission. He was hiding something; The Dark Lord recognized a necessity to be wary with that one. "With our combined power, any challenge that once presented itself as notable to us would be speedily eliminated. Potter and Dulmbedore," once this pair of names were mentioned, all five Voldemorts snarled venomously, " were becoming extremely powerful in my own reality. On the brink of death, young Tom here," he motioned to the young variant of themselves who only nodded in acknowledgement, "appeared and rescued me from imminent death. He relayed his plan of ultimate domination. I could not refuse his brilliant offer." Everyone smirked at this, sans the uneasy servants, of course...
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The first thing noticeable was the peculiar silence.
Two whole weeks into the summer holidays, silence reigned on the now desolate and deserted-looking avenue of Privet Drive. Not a whiff of the regular noise that habitually oversaw the activities of the street was present; There was not any sign of the usual boisterous children roaming freely along the sidewalks, nosy and gossiping house-wives meticulously manicuring their lawns, nor any type of indication that the typical rushing vehicles were amongst these streets in the beginning weeks of summer. Only perfect quiet effectively replaced this usual normalcy.
Among all the other addresses, this abnormal oddity was especially true in house Number 4. Inside, slowly awaking from a nightmare-plagued slumber; a particular thin raven-haired young man steadily arose from a pitiful excuse for a cot inside the smallest bedroom in the residence. Sweat dripping intensely from his pale, now rather shiny, forehead, the dreadful visions of death was still present in the boy's mind. He was only spared of it's wrath today, surprisingly. The young man's eyes were as close to piercing, deep emeralds as one could aspire to get; the closest thing comparable to his untidy, shoulder length hair would be a sweeping, jet-black veil, framing his thin waxy face. His hair, usually short, had grown uncontrollably in the past weeks. His skinny build disclosed his current meager eating habits quite effectively, leaving him with that look that practically screamed negligence. Wiping the sleep from his baggy, tired, and dull eyes, he slowly retrieved and slipped on his glasses from his nightstand. The nightmare of two days ago still rung in his head; A man writhing and shrieking on the ground under the watchful gaze of ominous red slits continually repeated as if on some VCR inside of his head, imprinting the memory successfully; the boy took it as if managing with horrific visions of torture were routine procedures.
Sadly, this was quite accurate. Lying back down on his bed, the one deemed Harry Potter, The-Boy-Who-Lived, analyzed his summer situation for what seemed like the hundredth time only this week. Barely a mere two weeks into his dreaded stay at the Dursleys' home, that seemingly dragged on like years, he was bored rigged to say the least. His only surviving family members had taken the Order's daunting intimidation tactics to heart, it seemed. They did not even acknowledge him in the slightest (give or take a few requests to pass the salt).
It was mildly disturbing.
In his early years he would have given even his most prized possession for such tranquility at the Dursleys', but he had to admit he was starting to miss being screamed at. Even being assigned house-work to complete sounded pretty inviting, hell, anything to disturb the dreary and monotonous atmosphere that ruled the residence with an iron fist . The restless teen had come to discover over the past weeks that the feeling of going to somewhere where you are noticed all of time to being ignored and overlooked was more than slightly disconcerting.
Sitting up from the cot, letting his threadbare blanket fall off him without conflict, Harry's impassive expression divulged nothing as he uninterestedly stared into the open space. Inwardly, however, the frightful clouds of misery governed the despaired teen's every action, his every thought. He paid no mind as the beaming gleams of sunshine crept in through his bedroom window, bringing entrance to a new day. He paid no thought to the insistent shouting of his Aunt Petunia, constantly notifying him of the prepared state of breakfast. He barely noticed anything, except the adamant voice in his head proclaiming his many faults and his rather sizeable guilt. The voice was right. Shallow representations of its effectiveness came in inch long slashing marks, layering his now almost skeletal arms from wrist to elbow.
'I have to do it, damnit!' It was to punish himself - for failing. For killing the only thing reminiscent of a Guardian or parent. For murdering Sirius.
Just the mere thought of his late godfather's name brought a certain stinging to his eyes and a specific throb in his chest. The urge to eat immediately abandoned him, fortifying the impulse to ignore the ear splitting shouts treated to him by his aunt. The sun grinned delightedly towards him from its place in the sky, but the suffocating clutch of depression would not permit him to share none of its ecstasy, relate to none of it's bliss. It didn't feel right doing so to Harry, with Sirius dead, his killer breathing, quite alive, still vividly enjoying her horrible existence.
Harry's blood rose several degrees at the sheer thought of her. Bellatrix Lestrange. The bitch that killed her own cousin, her own blood, in such a cold unfeeling manner - laughing all the while. Harry knew one thing: Despite his disadvantages in power, he would destroy her. Despite his small amount of experience in battle he held, he would kill that bitch. He vowed he would destroy not only her, but also those among her ranks, and finally Voldemort, The Dark Lord himself as he was destined to do. He would do it all by himself.
His usually glittering bright emerald orbs now cold as ice as his thoughts once again focused on the prophecy, the young man stood and approached his bedroom window. The prophecy had become his tormenter, destined to hang over his head until he finally got around to doing Fate's bidding. Running away had crossed his mind before it was scrapped distastefully to the side. Something deep inside him, most likely his Gryffindor nobility, would not allow him to even entertain the thought.
Surveying the avenue from his second story window, he found himself searching for a sign that indicated the Order of the Phoenix's intrusive and bothersome presence, the personal guards of his own private hell. He had repeated this particular pastime for the whole two weeks now, and it still managed to infuriate him on each occasion. The young man couldn't grasp how they believed they could dominate his life and oppress him in such a way. He had wanted to kill Dumbledore after the letter he had sent. How dare he even think he held the authority to tell him that he is not allowed do anything or go anywhere that was outside the house? 'Isn't that particular option for me to decide? Why is every damn person in the bloody world dying for power over my existence? How dare they watch over me like I am some irresponsible mutt, continually itching for trouble at every fucking stop!'
Oddly enough, Harry found himself somewhat agreeing with his eccentric description of himself. It was true in a sense once he gave it some thought, especially considering his saving-people thing. Harry tried to take his mind off this troubling, slightly unhinged train of thought
It didn't work.
Finally spotting a magenta-haired woman jogging half-heartedly around the block, evidently exercising, his anger returned full force. It hovered and surrounded him like a growing ball of energy, showing no signs of abating. Harry half expected the young woman to drop dead at any given moment if the daggers he were throwing her were any indication.
His rage, however, was not entirely intended for the woman he was intently observing, nor was it intended for the dog walker (Snape), the enthusiastic biker (Remus), or any of the others. It was actually directed mostly at the man, his headmaster, Albus Dumbledore. Although his manipulative objectives were highlighted only for the briefest of moments, it still managed to shock and madden Harry to no end. Who the fuck did he think he was? His controlling ways even now combined with the fact that he kept him in the dark last year made him want to scream. Better yet, break the old man's legs, and watch that infuriating twinkle dim out, making those blue eyes cringe in pain while stomping him into oblivion...
Well, maybe that was a bit much...
Maybe not. The bastard deserved it as far as this frustrated teen was concerned.
Watching the woman he knew to be Nymphadora Tonks run back and forth set his mind into motion, thinking about the future; How was he, a below average wizard, supposed to battle the most feared and abhorred wizard of the age without the proper ammunition and stand a chance of triumphing? He ran a hand through his untidy mane unconsciously as the wheels of his mind began to turn. Harry couldn't, wouldn't rely on the Order's protection for any longer. That was already a decided matter. It wouldn't serve him any good in the final battle to run away and be protected like some whining, petulant, baby. So how was he, a mere child, supposed to avenge his godfather without the sufficient amount of power and knowledge? In fact, he was sure Hermione could give him a run for his money in magical dueling, let alone the infamous power of The Dark Lord, or even that bitch Lestrange.
A determined glint developed in those now indifferent, stormy emerald orbs as this thought crossed his as of late problematical mind. Knowledge was power, and power would be of great assistance in his plight against the Dark Lord. He knew exactly where he would get this aid from. Hermione would have smiled at the thought.
Books. It sounded like the best damn idea he had came up with this summer.
Looking around to make sure Tonks was the only Order member on duty, he found himself satisfied. It would be almost too easy to creep past whoever was on duty later on if they were alone. In the safety and comfort of his invisibility cloak, it would be simple to summon The Knight Bus, which would then easily transport him to the Diagon Alley.
Staying put was not an option. The damn order, no, that damn old fool rather, would not allow him to venture out his aunt's protection if he had his say. But he had to. It simply commanded to be done.
Fuck whatever the Order had to say.
Curtailing his angry thoughts, the door to his bedroom banged open startlingly with an audible thud. His Aunt Petunia, armed with an intimidating snarl that could make even that bastard Snape cower in absolute terror, stood in his doorway. Harry let loose a noticeable sigh, immediately regretting ignoring her insistent yelling, quietly noting her menacing expression along with the almost maniacal glint in her eyes.
"I SAID BREAKFAST IS READY NOW, POTTER! GET YOUR LAZY ARSE UP!"
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