AN: Well, it's been about 2 or so years since I've even looked at the Dark Forgotten One. Now that I've started reading fanfiction again and getting back into the hang of Harry Potter, I've decided to redo the Dark Forgotten One. This is a more darker and realistic take on the Wrong Boy Who Lived and the Harry Potter Twin theory. Looking back at the Dark Forgotten One, the grammar and overall idea just makes me cringe. Hopefully this is finished by the time I graduate :) Just a general sorry to those who were disappointed with my desertion of , this time I will make sure this is finished, but updates may be even months in between.
Here's to the Darker Half, Chapter 1: The Beginning
Through his viewpoint, Harry supposed that everyone started off as a weed. Through germination to finally sprouting from the ground, there was no difference in anyone's existence. Everyone was a weed, and everyone aspired to the great grand tree that provided shade and shelter through the dusty summers and snowy winters. However, the differences began to show just as cracks show in the sidewalk. Some were nurtured more than others, given a little more water, just a little more sunshine. Within each patch of dull weeds there would sprout some weeds that grew faster than others, greener and healthier. As time passed on the surrounding weeds would die, and the healthy weed would continue to grow from the death of each of its kind. Its roots grew longer and stronger, sneaking through others and slowly strangling them until they could only give in. But for every strong weed that was taller and arose from the roots of others, the shadows of death seemed to turn darker over this weed just as the grand old tree approached closer and closer.
Society was like this to Harry. Some grew up in loving families, with the proper care and nutrients. They had the right kind of education and always trustworthy friends. Eventually those surrounding the fast growers continued to give up their time or belongings to help them further their course in life. Sometimes this required sacrifices, sometimes even death. But this strong weed did not find the time to look down at the weeds surrounding its roots; it could only look up at the grand old tree, an everlasting God or force of nature, maybe even Magic herself.
There was no gardener to guide Harry, no caring nurturer to provide what he needed most. Instead, without the love and attention that a child desires, he just withered. But that didn't stop him from continuing to grow, no; instead Harry continued to rise above the stronger weeds. He grew thorns to keep away the others, developed poisons to prevent predators. He became something not quite human, not quite demon, not even a weed. He was the stubborn child of nature, not willing to give up, defying destiny and fate. All Harry wanted to do was surpass that white lily flower that grew within his patch of weeds, the one that his parents and elders naively tried to protect. Harry wanted to make its white petals stained red. Then, Harry supposed, he could pass even the grand old tree, squeezing his roots around it, strangling it until its last breath, when he would say;
"A withered flower can never bloom again, but a thorny bush will struggle against its fate."
It all started that chilly October night, the night of Halloween, a rather poor imitation of Samhain, the day to celebrate the end of season and a new beginning. However, this night was true to its date by opening the doors to the dawn of a new age that would forever change wizarding history.
The laughter of wizarding children rang through his ears as he silently glided by. With a slight hiss in annoyance, he wandered into the street of the Potters, within Godric's Hallow. His finger twitched slightly at a girl in a muggle costume. Just a wave of his finger and the silly witch who was interested in disgusting mudbloods would be forever silenced. Magic amazed him; through magic he gained the power of a thousand strings of life that he would chose to snip or keep. Scowling, he continued his journey onto a lonely winding path leading to seemingly nothing. The gate was actually unlatched. He heard the springs squeaking slightly as a breeze whispered through, the gate swinging slightly as lonely as can be. With a gentle touch the gate sprang open and he walked through.
"Potter Manor, Lionheart Road, Godric's Hallow," he whispered to himself. Like a coating of snow being dusted away, Voldemort gave a twisted grin as he saw the revealed house.
With the foolish blood traitor Potter and his darling mudblood painfully knocked out with a curse, Voldemort continued his journey up the stairs. It seemed like every light was turned on, he cursed as he wished to be in his dark dungeon. Reaching the hallway, every door was closed except the one at the end of the hall, its door knob barely touching the edge of the doorway.
A wave of fingers later, Voldemort condescendingly looked down at two cribs placed closely together. Although young and not comprehending, the fearful eyes that looked back knew this was neither parent nor friend. Voldemort looked disdainfully at the twins, two worthless brats that stood in his way of mastering death and the dark arts.
"Shame your beloved parents could not see this. I would delight in their screams as they watch the lights drain out from your eyes," he mocked.
Pulling his wand from his robe, Voldemort pointed it in between the twins.
"At times like these I wish the death curse could apply to multiple people at the same time," he mused, "but seeing as you both will die, I think order doesn't matter tonight."
Innocent doe brown eyes looked at him from one crib, and icy green eyes from the other crib stared deep into his soul. Suppressing a shudder, since Dark Lords are above showing weak emotions, Voldemort realized those eyes matched with a green he was all too familiar with. But these eyes shone with not helpless fear, but calculating intelligence and maturity beyond what was possible for a child.
"Avada Kadavra," Voldemort said, pointing it at the green-eyed child that was unnerving him.
To his surprise, the child pointed a finger back at him, a ball of dark shadows concentrated at the tip. When the death curse touched it, it bounced back at Voldemort before he would actually comprehend what was happening.
"This cannot be….why did the prophecy end like this? By trying to stop the prophecy, did I actually accelerate its path? Curse cruel destiny…" Voldemort thought before being absorbed by his own dreaded curse.
The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches…
Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies…
And he will marked by the Dark as his equal, but the other will have the power the Light knows not…
And either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives…
The one with the power to vanquish the Dark will be born as the seventh month dies…"