A/N: This is a rewrite of Chapter 2. Changed a couple of things, but it's roughly the same plot, just written slightly better than before. Enjoy. (Hopefully)

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. JK Rowling owns HP.

Dursley Residence [1986]

Harry woke up in darkness.

Cautiously, he ran his hands over his surroundings, relying completely on his other senses to give him some sense of clarity. From what he gathered, he was in an extremely cramped room, a far cry from his nearly bare, but spacious bedroom at Potter Manor.

The record of his memories from last night played in his mind over and over again on endless repeat. The blackness of the room concealed the dark, disturbed look in his eyes. It had actually happened. His parents had left him.

Slowly he sank down to the floor, wrapping his arms around his folded legs. In the nearly tangible silence, he was acutely aware of his shaky breaths. He was practically able to hear his own pulse. Thump. Thump. Thump.

The sound of the steady rhythm only seemed to increase the intensity of the slow throbbing in his head. A gentle shiver went down his spine, and Harry raised his hands to massage his temples. He could hear it so clearly. His fingers tugged on the ends of his hair as it began to pulsate so loudly in his mind, until he was nearly suffocating by the pressure.

He took a deep breath, inhaling the stale air and the more-than-normal amount of dust in the room. His eyes watered and he gasped, choking and coughing. Not only did his parents have to leave him, but they also decided that he should acquire lung cancer as well? Harry chuckled quietly in the dark. Now, that was just rude.

Absentmindedly, he wondered if he would die in this shoebox.

Dursley Residence [December 1986]

Cupboard. Not a shoebox, he later found out.

Harry wasn't sure how long he had spent in there, for time seemed to barely trickle by while he was ensconced in the darkness for so long. He had tried to count the seconds, but that slowly drove him to the brink of insanity.

Eventually, someone had come to collect him. Or rather, roughly force him out of the confined cupboard. She called herself, 'Auntie Petunia', and in a shrill, demanding tone of voice, she had insisted that Harry sweep the floor if he wanted even a morsel of food that day.

Auntie Petunia's eyes had lingered on the child sized, wizard robes that he had worn that day. They were his only possession. The only reminder of his family, and what was now his past.

In a fit of smug vengeance, Auntie Petunia had tossed the already rumpled robes into the fireplace. Her lips were pressed into a thin line while she handed him some large cast-off muggle clothes that had once belonged to his cousin. The whole thing was disgustingly symbolic.

He had barely managed to rescue the shrunken down book he had shoved into his robes earlier.

And now, as he stood over the sink on a small stool, washing the dirty plates leftover from dinner that evening, Harry mulled over what his life had become in just a couple months.

With each passing day, the mountain of chores he was to complete became larger and larger. They were mind numbingly boring tasks, simply meant to tire him and overwork his malnourished body. It only seemed to cause his bitter resentment for the Dursleys to grow infinitely.

Auntie Petunia, who appeared more horse than woman, considered herself above using rough discipline and physical violence to turn Harry into nothing short of a slave. He was her dear nephew, after all.

Unfortunately, her husband, Vernon Dursley, did not seem to have any qualms about such a thing. In fact, the large man seemed to take great pleasure in seeing the angry, bluish-black bruises that now decorated Harry's pale skin.

His hands, clad in yellow rubber gloves, viciously scrubbed the dish harder at the thought.

There was one more Dursley that simply existed to make his pitiful life even worse. As if that was even possible. Harry snorted.

Although the title of "Worst Dursley" ultimately went to Uncle Vernon, his son Dudley came in a close second. The whale-boy was intent on causing Harry more trouble in any way. Breaking the dishes, trailing mud into the house, purposely uprooting Auntie Petunia's precious flowers were all ways the youngest Dursley would wreck havoc. And if his daily ministrations brought a new kick to Harry's stomach, then Dudley considered it a good day.

Harry never bothered to complain. He knew it didn't matter; he would suffer regardless of a couple of broken vases and chipped teacups.

The sound of the door slamming against the wall alerted Harry, and he stiffened noticeably against the sink. His fingers squeezed the sponge in his hands.

"Where'd ya go, brat?"

Harry sucked in a sharp breath, listening to the footsteps thumping heavily onto the old floorboards. There was a small thud in the hall, and a large hand came to grip the doorframe.

Vernon Dursley was absolutely sloshed.

Harry squeezed the sponge tighter, watching the soapy foam drift lazily down to the drain. His back was to the doorway, but he could hear the heavy breathing from behind him.

"Didn't I tell you ter clean the floors 'fore I got back?" Vernon asked, his voice a deep grumble.

"I did, Uncle Vernon." Harry grimaced and turned around. "Twice."

His words fell on deaf ears.

The cool porcelain sink was pressing into his back, and Harry tentatively took off the comical yellow gloves. He eyed the drunken stumbles of Vernon Dursley wearily, "Don't come any closer." He warned.

Vernon snorted, "What are yeh going ter do 'bout it?"

"I said," Harry gritted his teeth, "Don't come any closer." His hands reached out protectively in front of him.

The elder Dursley grinned, a vile glint coming into his glazed over eyes. His meaty hand reached up to Harry, roughly slapping his head to the side. Vernon inched closer; shoving the boy off the small stool he stood on.

Harry's elbows dug into the cool tiles of the kitchen floor. He scrambled back, clutching at his burning cheek. His uncle towered over him with a sick look on his face.

Harry shook his head slowly, letting out a bitter chuckle. "You shouldn't have done that."

Vernon did not bother to respond, his thoughts fixated on strangling the menace that had infested itself in his home.

His chest shuddered, and with a certain steely determination, Harry whispered, "Stupefy." He barely rolled out of the way when Vernon Dursley came crashing down, hitting the floor with a loud thud.

Harry felt some of the earlier tension leave his body, relieved–and slightly shocked– that his spell had actually worked. He leaned against the sink for several long moments, until he heard the sound of footsteps hurrying down the stairs.

In a matter of mere seconds, Petunia Dursley let out a shriek when her eyes landed on her husband unconscious on the floor. She scurried forward, completely ignoring her nephew for the moment.

"Vernon." She squeaked, shaking his shoulders. Her panic heightened at his lack of response and she turned her gaze to the boy who was looking utterly unconcerned standing next to the unmoving body of his uncle. "You killed him." She accused, pointing a shaking finger at Harry. "You've murdered him in cold blood!"

Harry rolled his eyes. "He's drunk, Auntie Petunia." He held his hands up in surrender. "I did nothing. Except for the dishes, as you requested." He revealed the sparkling clean dishes in the sink with a mocking flourish.

"No–My Vernon, he would never–No, you did this! With m-m-magic." Her face paled considerably. "I thought we were done with Lily and her band of freaks. B-But, no, she decides to dump her murderous son on me to handle." She stuttered.

"He's not dead!" Harry snapped angrily, accidentally shattering the glasses he had carefully placed upside down to dry on the counter.

Harry flinched when he heard Auntie Petunia's loud scream. It sounded so similar, so exactly like his own mother. He scowled. Well, at least now I can finally see the resemblance.

It seemed like such a long time ago when he had heard his mother scream in such a desperate manner. It was nothing but a hazy memory by now, but Harry could never forget that day. It was the first day he had met Tom.

The owl outside was pecking incessantly at the window, eventually forcing Harry to roll out of bed with an audible groan. He trudged over to the window, and opened it with a small grunt. The sleek black owl immediately flew into the room, perching on Harry's unmade bed.

"Ger off, silly bird. I don't want feathers in my bed." He scolded, voice laced with sleep. The owl ignored him, and gave him a look that could only be described as haughty. Harry sighed, throwing himself back onto his bed. The owl squawked at the sudden shifting of the mattress.

Harry turned his head to glare at the bird that refused to move, and his eyes fell onto the wrapped package it had delivered. He stared curiously at it. "Is this for me?" He asked the owl. The bird shifted in response, turning the package so he could see the elegantly written 'Mr. Harry James Potter' on the side.

"Going crazy." Harry muttered to himself as he unwrapped the package. "Talking to owls –" His breath caught in his throat when his eyes lay upon the huge book that lay in his lap. It was by no means, a new book, judging from the many stains and the layer of dust that had settled onto the cover. His sharp eyes scanned the title. "A Beginner's Guide to Dark Curses and Hexes"

The door to his room slammed open, and Harry scrambled up in his sheets, tucking the book protectively to his chest. He relaxed slightly when he noticed it was simply his twin brother, Alexander.

"Hawy, mum says breakfast ready." Alexander said, as-a-matter-of-factly. Sauntering into the room, he gasped when his eyes fell on the dangerous looking owl in the room. "Hawy! Look! Owl!"

Alexander raced to the owl, which snapped its beak viciously and swooped around the room, before flying out the open window. Alexander pouted, only for a second, until he looked at the book that was tucked into Harry's arms.

"What's that?" He pointed, reaching out to touch the book.

Harry slapped his brother's hand away and shook his head.

Alexander ignored his brother, instead deciding to reach further and further towards the book. "I wanna see, Hawy. I wanta the book."

Harry's eyes flashed. There would be no way he would let Alexander take yet another thing away from him. This book was addressed towards him, and only he would be the one touching it!

Clearly, Alexander did not see to share the same thoughts as his brother. Eventually, he grew tired of reaching for the book, and simply lunged, pushing Harry to the ground quite easily as the book tumbled from his grasp.

Triumphantly, Alexander snatched the book. And just as quickly, he dropped it with a painful cry.

Harry watched in horrific amusement as Alexander burst into tears, the book having literally burned him. His hands were red and blistering from the scalding heat of the book. Harry smiled. 'Finally, Alexander would get what he deserved.

His amusement only lasted for several long minutes–in which, he did get to see Alexander cry endlessly–since Lily Potter came running into the room, wand drawn and eyes alert. When her eyes landed on the burns on her son's hands, she let out the most terrifying scream.

It took James Potter, and two Aurors to convince Lily to calm down, eventually. She healed Alexander's hands, murmuring soothing words and drying his tears. When questioned about what had caused the burns, Alexander had of course, pointed to the book.

Harry snuck a quick glance at the book. It had been his first gift in years. He would not give it up so easily. And so, when James Potter walked forward to collect the book in order to check for curses, Harry dashed across the room, grabbing the book before anyone else could lay a hand on it.

"No! Harry don't touch it!" James Potter shouted, a minute too late. Lily gasped.

But nothing happened. Harry looked up at their shocked faces, and shrugged. He flipped through the book, looking at the pages that were yellowed with age.

"I don't think the book is cursed, Lord Potter." One of the Aurors noted nervously, gesturing to Harry. "Harry can touch it without any problem." Despite his assessment, the Auror kept the wand trained at the book.

James Potter swallowed a lump in his throat, "I'm more concerned about who sent him this book. And why?" He plastered an uneasy smile on his face and walked over to meet Harry.

"Heya, Harry. Do you mind if I take a look at your book for a second? I'll give it right back." James tried. Harry gave him a skeptical look and shook his head, tugging the book closer to his chest.

"Sir, based on the scan, there are no malicious forces detected." One of the Aurors informed.

James sighed, exasperatedly. "Well, can I at least see what book you have? I bet it's a really nice book."

Harry panicked. He knew the book was strange. It had burned the skin off his brother's hands. It was dangerous. And yet, the thought only made him hold the book tighter.

"Harry, if you don't show me the title, I'm going to have to take the book away." James threatened, wagging a stern finger in his face.

His son tensed, but slowly–reluctantly–Harry turned the book so his father could catch a glimpse of the title.

"Helpful Charms for your Garden?" James raised an eyebrow, his lips threatening to stretch into an amused grin. "Now why do you want a book on gardening, Harry?"

Harry shrugged. He didn't bother to correct his father either.

"I think it was just Alexander's accidental magic again. He's getting more and more powerful everyday." James Potter sighed, still looking skeptical. "Sorry for the false alarm."

It was only when everyone filed out of his room, did Harry notice the parchment that was wedged in between the worn cover and the backing of the book. He pulled it out and quickly scanned the small note that was written.

'Harry Potter, I look forward to meeting you as soon as you receive this message. I'll be waiting, wherever you are. Take the book with you. –Tom.'

Harry shivered with excitement. Quickly pulling on some decent clothes and shoes, he grabbed the book and raced out of his room. He nearly tripped over the steps of the grand staircase in his haste to meet this "Tom", that he assumed had given him the book.

"Whoa there, Harry. Off to start your gardening already?" His father called out from where he was leaning against the banister.

Harry could only nod excitedly as he stumbled through the doors, and onto the vast lawns that stretched across Potter Manor. Suddenly, he was faced with a strong wave of doubt.

Where would he go? What did 'Tom' mean, when he said he was waiting? Judging from the content of the book, Harry decided that it was best to meet somewhere that wasn't as open and conspicuous as his home. But the wards ran all the way around the property, and there would be no way to escape without one of his parents.

Harry followed the transparent shimmering of the wards around Potter Manor as they stretched from the cast iron gates of the estate, all the way to the lining of trees that separated their land from the forest.

The trees. He couldn't leave the estate, but he could surely hide away from prying eyes, couldn't he?

With that thought in mind, Harry took off running toward the trees. He ducked around the thick cover of the foliage, and stepped over loose branches on the ground. It was only when Harry could barely see his home through the trees did it occur to him that perhaps this would be a very bad idea.

He settled on a tree trunk to wait, nevertheless. If there even was a 'Tom', Harry was confident he would come.

And he did.

Harry only waited a couple minutes before he heard a cold voice whisper, "Harry Potter."

Slowly, Harry turned around, holding the book in his shaky hands. "T-Tom." It wasn't a question. "You're here." Harry breathed. "You're real."

Tom laughed.

They spoke quietly, meaningless small talk and formalities. Harry thanked him for the book, and Tom assured him it was no trouble at all.

The man was charming, almost dangerously so. He had high cheekbones and the darkest eyes Harry had ever seen. He had the command of a king and Harry could only watch him in awe.

But there was something off about him, Harry noticed. Tom would smile and laugh and grin and smirk, but his eyes…. they would always have the same dark, frosty look. There was a certain coldness about him, and simply being near him made Harry shudder. In anticipation, in excitement, or in fright, he was not sure.

He had learned several things simply from their brief introduction, and Harry knew he wanted to see Tom again. To his delight, Tom had agreed.

He had left Harry with a single puzzling statement, something that the young boy would ponder for years to come. "Sometimes, the ice burns hotter than any fire ever will."

A loud wail snapped him out of reminiscing through the memories he held on so dearly to. Harry glared at his Aunt with a new threatening look in his eyes. She didn't seem to notice.

That was when he decided to switch tactics.

He thought back to his several encounters with Tom. He remembered the way Tom's frosty eyes covered the darkness lurking inside. He concentrated on the way Tom spoke in a quiet drawl that had all the hairs on his neck standing up.

And now, as Harry stared down at his aunt–who insisted on continuing to help her husband, although it was of no use–he decided that a little dose of Tom's persona could do no more harm.

"He's not going to wake." Harry muttered in a low voice, fixing his gaze on a spot above her head.

"What have you done to him?" Aunt Petunia gasped. "Tell me! Tell me, now!"

Slowly, he turned his head to look at her. His eyes hardened to an icy steel, and he raised an eyebrow. "No." He said simply.

Petunia stared up at her nephew, shuddering involuntarily at the way the moonlight cast a dark shadow onto his sharp features. "Fix him." She demanded. "Or I'll–"

"You'll what?" Harry cut in, eyeing her with distaste. He studied his nails uninterestedly. "What are you going to do to me? Filthy muggle." He spat.

Petunia paled. "Mug–Muggle? But that's…" She trailed off, and her expression contorted into one of extreme rage. "I told you to forget about your little freakshow! You and your stupid–"

"I wouldn't continue that thought, if I were you." Harry smirked wickedly, leaning his bruised elbows against the sink. "Last I checked, I killed your husband." He paused and gave her a threatening look. "I could do the same to you."

"You can't threaten me! This is my home! My kitchen! My–…" She stopped abruptly when she saw Harry move his hand in the air and whisper something under his breath.

"You know…" Harry drawled, straightening his back to resemble the rigid posture Tom had. "I don't need a wand to do magic." He nudged Vernon with his foot.

"What do you want?" She whispered finally, resting her hands on the kitchen table as if she needed help to stand up.

Harry shrugged. "I just need you to leave me alone. No more endless chores. No more baggy clothing. No one in this house should even dare to lay a single finger on me." He smiled sweetly, cracking his knuckles. "Is that too much to ask, my dearest Aunt?"

"N-No." Petunia replied, refusing to look up from her shaking hands. "You have my word."

"Good." Harry murmured silkily, stepping away from the counter. He made to move towards the doorway, "I think I'll sleep in the guest bedroom from now on." He mused.

"And Vernon?" Petunia asked hopefully, before he could leave.

He turned around and scowled. "You'll explain our deal to the rest of your family when they wake?"

She nodded vigorously.

Harry waved his hands over Vernon's still frame and sighed. "He'll get up in the morning. Remember to tell him about…the change. I wouldn't want to do that again, would I?"

He didn't wait for a response, turning to disappear up the stairs. He pushed open the door to the guest bedroom and grinned widely at the sight of so much space for him to actually move in. It was no Potter Manor, but at least it would be better than that cupboard under the stairs they had shoved him into.

This would be the first night he would sleep well since stepping foot into the Dursley residence.

Dursley Residence [March 1987]

Harry flipped the page of his book, lazily leaning against the white picket fence that separated the Dursley property. Since it was the only book he currently possessed, he had already read it from cover to cover. The information was ingrained in his mind, and from several hours of practice, he could now cast most–if not all– of the spells in the book with perfect execution.

He sighed, turning the page routinely. The book was starting to bore him, which simply would not do.

There was a soft rustling in the grass, and Harry tensed. His eyes swept over the small property, staring at shadow and corner for anything lurking in the shadows. When he saw nothing he leaned back against the fence, but his shoulders refused to let go of the tension.

Stupid humans. Ruining my home. Taking my food.

Harry was startled, and he gripped his book tighter as he looked across the yard once more. This time, he was able to see a small silver snake slithering across the lawn, darting in and out of his sight through the grass. Still shaken, he whispered a small, "Sorry."

He watched with wide eyes as the snake froze, and then slowly turned its sleek head to face him. Harry stiffened when the snake lazily glided over to him, but he did not dare to move.

Another speaker? There has not been another in centuries.

Harry stared at the snake's abnormally large midnight blue eyes. A cold shiver trickled down his spine. His shoulders trembled in fear, and he shut the book in his hands.

The snake flicked its black forked tongue out, coming closer to Harry's body, but was careful not to touch him.

Do not be afraid, human. I mean no harm.

Despite his untrusting nature, Harry found himself believing the hisses that were coming from this snake. He checked to make sure no one was around before asking, "How can I understand you?"

You are a parslemouth. We snakes speak a special language, Parseltongue. It is a rare skill, but not unheard of.

Harry hesitated before questioning, "Do you know anyone else that speaks…Parseltongue?" The word sounded strange in his mouth.

You are warm, human child.

The snake came to rest against Harry's hands, raising its head to look him in the eye. Instinctively, Harry understood. He tentatively brushed his fingers over the snake's head, paying attention to the way the snake leaned into his touch.

Hesitantly, Harry held out his hands. The snake slithered into them, coming to rest its head on Harry's lap. It curled itself around his arm.

There is only one speaker I've heard of in this lifetime. Some consider him a legend. He is the Master of all snakes.

"But who is he?" Harry pressed further, "Do you know where he is?"

The snake did the equivalent of shaking its head, and Harry sighed in disappointment.

But I could find him.

"Really?" Harry exclaimed eagerly, petting the snake's head. "You'd do that?"

I live to serve, Master.

Harry frowned, pausing in his petting. "You called me 'Master'."

It is the way of snakes, Master. We give respect to the humans we consider as worthy.

"But I haven't done anything for you." He stated, cocking his head to the side in confusion.

But you have. You have given me warmth in this cold, rainy place. I have never felt the warmth of a human in my entire three years. My kind does not care for most of the cruel humans we encounter.

"But you came near me." Harry whispered. "Why is that? Weren't you afraid of me too?"

You will not hurt me, the way I will not hurt you.

Greetings Master. My name is Mercury, and I come bearing interesting news. I have found another human speaker.

The silver snake glided into the room, twisting gracefully around the several unconscious bodies scattered across the marble floor. It made its way to the lavish throne chair that had been set up in the far end of the massive hall decorated with crystal mirrors.

The handsome man stared at the snake curiously for several long seconds. Finally, he raised an eyebrow and said, quite simply, "Oh?"

He's a powerful wizard; I can sense it, Master. But he's being kept prisoner in the Muggle world.

The man, otherwise known as Lord Voldemort, sneered at the mere thought of the disgusting species. They were not even fit to call themselves human. He shook his head, a wizard being held captive by filthy muggles simply would not do. "Who is he, my loyal servant?" He questioned idly, running his fingers down his wand.

It's the Potter boy, my lord. Harry Potter.

Lord Voldemort sucked in a sharp breath, his eyes widening a small fraction. Slowly, his lips curled into a calculating smirk. The Potter boy, heir to the light, was a speaker. How peculiar. Suddenly, he frowned as a thought struck him. "Mercury, what is Harry Potter, of all children, doing in the Muggle world?"

The snake flicked its tongue out, allowing for a menacing hiss to escape. Master, he has been abandoned by his family.

Voldemort almost rolled his eyes. He had been discreetly searching for the boy for the past couple of months. Of course Harry Potter would be in a worthless muggle town. It was the only place he had not even thought to look. "Is he still there?"

From what he has told me, it seems he will never be allowed to leave.

Lord Voldemort nodded, twirling the wand in his hands in lazy circles. "I think I owe young Harry a visit." He looked down at the snake and commanded, "Prepare for the journey. I will see him soon."

Dursley Residence [April 1987]

"Hello, Harry Potter."

Harry slowly raised his head from the book he was still using to cling to the wizarding world. He eyed the stranger in front of him with curious eyes. "Who are you?" He asked suspiciously.

The man was rather frightening: sickly white skin, blood red eyes, and a nose so flat, it was practically nonexistent. His thin lips curved into what loosely resembled a smile. "I am a friend."

Harry squinted at the man, slowly rising up from his tensed position against the fence. The man was smiling, and there was something very familiar about the natural way his smile seemed to look more like a wicked smirk. Also, there was something off about his eyes. They were completely devoid of any emotion.

Although he was sure he had never seen the strange, scary looking man in front of him, Harry swore there was something so familiar about him. The monster straight from his nightmares seemed to have the same mannerisms as– "Tom?" He blurted out.

The stranger full on smirked, and Harry knew that instant. The man waved his hands in front of his body, and easily the glamour faded and Harry was presented with the familiar face of the closest person he considered to a friend, Tom.

"You are more observant than I had previously thought." Tom grinned, easily twirling his wand in his hands.

"You're the 'Master of all snakes?'" Harry asked in disbelief.

Tom nodded. He scanned the basic looking home and frowned with obvious disdain. "Is this where you've been hiding out for almost a year? In this filthy excuse of even a muggle home?"

Harry shrugged. "I used to sleep in the cupboard under the stairs."

If possible, Tom's expression seemed to get even more disgusted. "I've been looking for you for quite some time, and you've been living under a cupboard?"

"I used some magic to force them into giving me a proper bed a few months ago." Harry admitted. Suddenly, he froze. Carefully, he ducked his head down and whispered, "You were looking for me?"

Tom rolled his eyes. "Of course. I knew you were not fond of your parents, but I did not think they would do something as cruel as abandoning you in the muggle world."

Harry's cheeks colored with anger. "Neither did I."

Tom blinked at the sudden change. Casually, he placed his hand on Harry's shoulder and said, "I have a proposition for you, young Potter."

"What is it? It can't be worse than where I am right now."

Tom bristled at the lack of interest. "Why don't you come with me, to my Manor? I heard from a little snake that these Muggles have been treating you rather poorly. I can promise, being raised under my guidance will be quite a bit of an improvement."

Harry hesitated, looking back at the simple house with a hateful expression on his face. "What's the catch, Tom?"

A wicked gleam came into his eyes as Tom raised his wand. In a series of quick movements, he spelled out 'TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE' in large, fiery letters.

Harry stared at the name with a confused look on his face. His brows crinkled in confusion. "The catch, Tom?" He repeated, not moving his eyes off the magical script.

Tom slashed his wand in the air, and the letters quickly rearranged themselves.

Harry's breath caught in his throat when his eyes fell upon the neatly written, 'I AM LORD VOLDEMORT' in the air. His jaw slackened. "Oh." He breathed.

Tom nodded, a sick smile twisting his handsome features. "Oh, is right."