Chapter 1: No Ass-Kicking This Longbottom

The dark figure Apparated onto a quiet street in Bloomsbury. When the target's location had first been confirmed to him, he had assumed there would be more wards, advanced magic that might prevent him from accessing the home or surrounding neighborhood in any way. It surprised and pleased him that there were no such limits. These fools in the Order…. Did they think someone's mind could keep a secret like this locked away forever, and trust on that security alone? It was as though Dumbledore and his sheep had never heard of spells involving tor – enhanced interrogation (the synonym torture was such a naughty word, to his poised mind).

Scanning the street, he wanted to groan. It was late, but this was the night of that infernal Muggle holiday where little whelps dressed up in silly costumes and paraded around as though on show. And to think he had found the custom fascinating when he was younger! Of course, the orphanage had sullied that by never allowing him to participate –

Stop, he thought. Recalling his past life, his years before turning 11, was neither wise nor advisable, ever. It only brought discomfort.

Flicking at the hem of his robes, the hooded figure advanced up the small cul-de-sac and onto a main neighborhood street, keeping his eyes peeled for the address of the target in question. Sweeping into the midst of trick-or-treaters, he made every attempt to blend in. After all, no one would think twice about witnessing a man wearing a hood low to cover his face – not on this particular night.

Yet apparently, that didn't mean he wouldn't attract attention. He froze when a brat wearing some kind of headdress that made him look like a green little house-elf came dashing right up to him.

"Nice costume, mister!"

He didn't reply, simply glowered at him using only his blood-red eyes, which would be the only thing discernable to this tyke who thought he could dare to pay the Dark Lord himself such a cheap compliment. Perhaps the child sensed something dangerous about him, or maybe it was a chill in the wind, for it took only an awkward beat or two before he turned tail and sprinted away, wariness and fear in his orbs. Lord Voldemort's bony hand itched at the albino wand stowed within the sleeve of his robes. One little flick, and the insolent thing would never reach its mother…. But unnecessary! So very unnecessary! He was wasting precious time as it was.

Voldemort continued his prowl, red eyes peeled for a number marked on a postbox, the doorknocker, anywhere. He willed himself to have patience; he would find it before long. Hopefully by the time he did, the trick-or-treaters would be long gone. He would deeply prefer not to have any witnesses, even as he knew he could blow up this whole residential area with just a wave of his hand. A simple twirl on his part could flatten this place using the power equivalent to a nuclear warhead. Yet this was no time for sport; he had a mission, and he aimed to carry it out. He had to carry it out, to know peace.

When Severus, his most trusted adviser, had come to him with this bit of intelligence, he had been tempted to laugh it off as the wish-casting of a deluded madwoman who fancied herself a seer. Surely a little boy couldn't hope to stand against him! He knew the Trelawny woman by reputation, but even he would have hoped she wasn't that mad! More preposterous still was the theory that there were two of them. Two boys who could lay a rightful claim to the bounty on his exalted head. Two little-bitty, snot-nosed children who apparently had equal chance for a date with destiny that ended with the usurpation of his life! Oh, how ungrateful the world was to their savior and benevolent dictator, to wish him dead! Him?! How dare they! How dare they believe in such…. fairytales!

If it's a mere fairy story, an annoying little voice tickled his mind, Then why are you here?

Voldemort brushed back the gotcha thought with a threatened hiss. He knew perfectly well why he was here, as did (he hoped) all of his followers. Just because the oracle had been delivered by a batty old woman did not mean she lacked prescience. Divination was not a subject to be trifled with, for prophecies had been known to come true before; the Ministry was said to keep an entire level full of them. A psychic like Trelawny wouldn't deliver a prophecy that had no hope of ever coming to pass, otherwise why bother reading the signs for a future? Even the craziest of prophecies were just crazy enough that they could be real. That was a chance he was unwilling to take.

This entire prophecy business had made his life so inconvenient and difficult, especially seeing as it left him having to guess. Lord Voldemort was supposed to know all and see all! Just the same, it would have been helpful not to have to pick between two little blood-tainted pups and risk guessing wrong. Still, he had needed to, and he had deliberated on his decision carefully and wisely.

The boy whom he would murder tonight had pure blood in his veins, hailed from a lineage of the Sacred Twenty-Eight themselves. Yet his parents chose to become traitors to their kind! These turncoats would poison their son's mind against His reasonable positions. It wasn't as though blood traitors were an impossible concept – the Weasleys were proof enough of that.

Besides, it was always prudent to consider that one's enemy may come from the most unlikely of places, at face value. And at this face value, Neville Longbottom did not seem a logical choice based on his pureblood status alone, despite how corrupted it would be due to his birth to two people who had dared to spurn Him!

Voldemort seethed as he thought of the little beast's parents. Frank and Alice Longbottom were some of Dumbledore's prized pupils. Respected Aurors and members in good standing of their so-called Order. Indeed, the young couple, by all appearances, seemed to be…. popular and liked. He shuddered with disgust. Being respected and liked might be perfect for some people who don't know they're alive! In his infinite wisdom and experience, however, he had found that it was better to be feared. Feared – that was the true measure of power and influence. People were more willing to do what you wanted of them if they feared you more than they might admire you.

It had thrilled him, the terror in his faithful's eyes when he'd announced his decision on whom he would eliminate. Only Snape had appeared something close to pleased, even relieved. Voldemort smirked, the knowledge most amusing to him, even now. How Severus lusted for a Mudblood bitch's loins! And a Mudblood who had a mate to whom she was married, no less! Oh, Severus…. you wicked, wicked boy…. The temptation to taste Mud on the part of his loyal deputy should have disgusted him, when he first learned of it, but instead, it had rather tickled him. Just as it had amused him when Severus had placed a request for a boon and tried to pretend there was no…. naked appeal (no pun intended) behind it. In truth, the possible threat of James and Lily Potter's spawn had been the much more logical choice and thus quite enticing. The Potter boy and he shared many similarities, despite how hard he worked to hide those inconvenient facts from his followers. Only a few most trusted knew the secret of their Lordship's heritage. Ultimately, it had been the desire not to raise uncomfortable questions along these lines that had made Voldemort decide on the Longbottom baby. The optics of destroying symbols of pure blood resistance would also send a much stronger message, as opposed to killing a half-breed, whose kind along with the Mudbloods would defy him no matter what. If he wanted to strike the most fear into the hearts of wizardkind, then little Neville was the greater threat.

The magic number delineating the address suddenly leaped out at him, and the Dark Wizard turned up the corresponding drive with a snap. He wondered if these rebels would see him coming; it didn't much matter to him whether they did or not. He quickened his pace slightly, keeping a sharp watch for the flashes of light heralding the pre-emptive casting of charms and wards. No such measures came.

He drew his wand, wiggled it lazily, causing the entire front porch to burst into flames. The terrible WHOOSH elicited screams and crashes from inside. Strolling leisurely onto the doorstep, he blasted the front entryway apart with another flick, sending the front door barreling backward off its hinges. A shout – deep, the voice of a man - went up and the door was still hurtling through space when it suddenly cleaved in near-perfect two, revealing a curly crown of dark hair.

"Alice, it's HIM! Take Neville and GO! I'll hold him off! – Stupefy!"

In the moment that he blocked the spell in an almost bored manner, Voldemort vaguely thought that Frank Longbottom was a rather plain-looking man, his physique not seeming to support the special esteem he apparently held amongst his insurrectionist comrades. Nothing special. Oh, but he was a daring duelist, he had to give the fellow that much, if not exactly skilled enough to match His prowess.

Voldemort and Frank magically fenced down the length of the narrow hallway that partially served as the foyer, and between the smoke rapidly filling the dwelling, enough that it obfuscated the flashes of spells from Frank's wand, the Dark Lord found himself decently impeded. It vexed him. He became all the more irked when he heard frantic stomping and banging coming from the second-floor landing just above them. He aimed his wand for the ceiling and purposefully sent a curse high, not even tilting his head to see its flight path or track where it would land. The resulting crunch was not as deep a sound as he would have hoped, which told him the bitch must have contained it, somehow. A feminine yelp, and then he heard an upstairs door slam. The harpy was listening to her husband and going for the baby first! No! He couldn't let them get away!

Voldemort tired of toying with his prey and screamed in his mind, AVADA KEDAVRA!

A death rattle of a scream responded to the green bolt of magic, followed by a thump, then nothing else. On feeling, Voldemort strode down the remaining length of the hallway, stepping gingerly over the crumpled corpse of his unworthy adversary, then almost serenely mounted the stairs. He was advancing at a moderate pace now – no longer leisurely, yet not too frantic. He would hate to scare his prey too much….

Just off the landing, his powers of Leglimens told him which of the doors along this open-aired floor belonged to the child. A witch worth her skill such as herself would have attempted to ward the entrance, though really, he would have much rather preferred to knock. There was such a thing in his mind of getting too messy, messy, messy when neutralizing a threat. Ah, well.

KABOOM! This door went sailing backwards through the air much like its predecessor, tumbleweeding over the crib within and smashing clean through the back window overlooking the tiny alcove with love seat. The woman inside screamed, and once the chaos assaulting his vision had cleared, he was impressed to find the lady standing directly between him and her infant son. Only her hands shook as she tightly gripped the wand, which was all that was betraying her terror, and he nearly wanted to praise her for viewing him in such a healthy manner. Good…. Good…..

"Not Neville! Please, PLEASE, PLEASE NOT NEVILLE!"

"There, there, dear Alice," Voldemort tutted, his tones dulcet and holding every timbre of a comforting parent. "There is no need for such hysterics. This is what must be. There is no other thing for it…."

"YOU WILL NOT TAKE MY CHILD!" Alice suddenly shrieked; she sounded utterly out of her head, the poor lass, still but a child herself. She silently fired off a spell as a kind of warning spot. He didn't even bother to block it, for he perceived even as the cast left her wand's tip that it would go wide. A rocking chair in the corner overturned by itself.

Nonetheless, her courage left an impression on him. He was most taken with, even amused by, it, enough that he decided to play along with her. It was a split-second decision in the moment; normally, he would not give his quarry such an opportunity as this, but she had impressed him. And blood traitor or no, he found it was always a tragic waste to spill magical blood, even as collateral damage. He would give her a sporting chance.

"Stand aside, dear girl, and you will not be harmed. I have only come for the boy, after all."

He simmered when Alice simply ogled him. "Cede my only son to you willingly? You are mad, my Lord." Her allusion to his title dripped with sarcastic poison.

Voldemort's bloodless lips set in an even line, annoyed. He should have known better than to negotiate with a terrorist who had already thrice defied him. Her refusal to stand aside was the fourth strike against her. He debated briefly whether there should be the opening for a fifth.

Still wanting to appear merciful, he splayed his arms wide, goading. "Go on, SHOOT!" Alice eyed him with a wary glower, sensible not to trust him at his word, and refusing to take the open shot. He regretted that she could not see under his hood how he sneered at her, for he understood something that she did not: he could not be killed. He could not be beaten by mere spellwork, even that from the greatest of Unforgivables. He was Lord VOLDEMORT! "As I suspected: you don't know how to kill…."

Alice raised her wand fast as Voldemort took one crucial step in. "For my baby boy, I shall."

But she had missed her chance.

Beleaguered by this feckless game of theirs, Voldemort wearily sighed and swiped with his wand. The Killing Curse cut a path across the lady's bosom, and she went down, keeling with a scream befitting her end.

Tasting victory, Voldemort approached the crib. He was altogether startled by how the baby, though crying and wailing for its mother, now dead on the floor, was nonetheless staring directly at him. A practical newborn who could look him dead in the eye without fear, only mere anguish, reinforced in him that he had chosen the correct target. As he closed in for the kill, Voldemort was already flashing ahead to the next task at hand. Perhaps it would be wise to hunt for the Potters and their brat next himself, just in case he had misjudged. After all, better that there were no boys to challenge him than leaving the single, weaker one to grow to manhood. He paused, his bony wand held high, lingering on how to fill out his datebook for the immediate future. …. No. He would unleash Bella on the Potters, let her have her sport, but only kill them if any were close to death anyway. He would have to reward her for her service, somehow, upon her doing this for him.

As it turned out, this seemingly innocuous thought would be his last for a good time to come.

"AVADA KEDAVRA!"

A searing pain unlike anything he had ever experienced ripped through his body just then. No….. NOOOOOOOOO…..!

And then there was nothing.

All that was left in the silence of the ripped-apart nursery was a wailing Neville Longbottom, still very much alive, and now in deep discomfort over the sudden new spasm digging into his forehead, where a scar shaped like a bolt of lightning was now etched.