Don't own anything, really, I swear.

Chapter 2: Abandonment

The roaring of the flying engine was deafening.

Securely tucked in the arms of a motorcycle-piloting half-giant, Tom Riddle – formerly known as Lord Voldemort, and currently known as Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived – was looking at the starlit sky with a bored eye, trying to make sense of his situation.

Namely, the jarring fact that, out of all the possible candidates, it was the Groundskeeper of Hogwarts, who had whisked him away from Godric's Hollow. He did not understand why Rubeus Hagrid would be the one to retrieve the Potter child and not Black or Lupin. Were those two not James Potter's best friends? The memories he had torn from Pettigrew's mind had strongly suggested they were. He knew for a fact that Black was the child's godfather, so where was he? Running around the small settlement in search of the Dark Lord who had murdered the Potters? Or looking for the rat who had betrayed the Light side? Instead of taking care of his newly orphaned godson?

Considering what he had heard of Regulus' elder brother, that would actually be rather plausible.

Tom was getting to why Lupin was not around, when he remembered that the moon had been full only two nights ago, which meant that the frail werewolf – he mentally snorted at that – was still recovering from his monthly ordeal.

So. That left him with Hagrid, probably acting on Dumbledore's orders, the meddling fool.

Contrarily to what he would have expected from a creature of his size and strength, the half-giant had handled him with great care and gentleness, murmuring soothing words with his gravelly voice. Being shown such concern by someone who should hate and fear him was rather disconcerting, but Tom delighted in the irony.

Then the reminder that he had been defeated by a rebounding killing curse – which was absolutely not fair – dampened his spirits. Vanquished by an infant. Or by a dead mudblood's lucky shot, whichever sounded worse. He wanted to scream against the unfairness of it all.

Killing curses did not bounce back, for Merlin's sake! They could not be blocked; they went through everything until they found a target, that's what made them so deadly! All his hatred and rage at the world twisted harshly within him and he scowled, which was probably not as scary as he was used to.

His grand master plan, shot to hell because Magic had decided to screw the rules.

Staring at the starlit sky, he sighed in annoyance. Everyone was going to believe that he was dead. In fact, the Wizarding World was certainly celebrating right now. At the very least, in this entire disaster, there was one positive consequence, if he could call it that.

No one would be prepared when he would rise again.

And rise again he would, because there was simply no way he was not going to change the world. The question was merely how.

His plans had been delayed and he had no doubt that his devoted, loyal, faithful followers would betray the cause the instant he was out of the picture. Most were Slytherin; self-preservation defined them. He was pretty sure Malfoy would be the first to claim innocence – the sly bastard – and he would not have it any other way. His Death Eaters would be of no use to him in Azkaban and he did not expect – or even want – his allies to sacrifice their lives for him, should he truly die.

Which, by the way, was not happening.

A giddy feeling stirred in his stomach as he contemplated his triumph. The Killing Curse had struck him, torn him from his body, and he was still there. He was still there, very much alive, his mind intact and his magic as strong as ever.

He had vanquished Death.

He wanted to laugh and dance in glee. He would never actually do so (mind you, he had some dignity) but still, the feeling was there and it was strong.

The gut-twisting sensation of the rapidly descending motorcycle brought him back to reality. Their landing was surprisingly smooth for such a boisterous engine and Tom soon found himself cradled in the half-giant's arms.

Snippets of conversations reached his ears but they were muffled by the sound of the engine. He recognized Dumbledore's voice and felt a distinct twinge of aggravation.

Nosy old fool always sticking his nose in my business…

Then, the word "muggle", spoken by an elderly witch – McGonagall – caught his attention and, as the content of their exchange made itself clearer, he began to shake in his blankets.

No. They were not going to do that. They could not. They could not leave him on this porch, on a freezing November night, to be raised by muggles.

And, according to McGonagall, those were 'the worst sort of muggles' she had ever seen and Dumbledore was going to leave a child, whom anyone in the Wizarding World would gladly take under their roof, to be raised by magic-hating muggles?

Were they insane?

Ѻ

Are they ? What-a-twist !