15 October 1986—Charing Cross Road, London

Severus Snape rarely left Hogwarts in the middle of the week, but a sudden spike in the idiocy of his 5th year students had depleted his supply of more than one potion ingredient, and he needed to make a quick stop at the Apothecary in Diagon Alley.

And if, after visiting that mediocre store, he just happened to wander into muggle London and stop at a certain Michelin-starred Italian restaurant where Lucius Malfoy had graciously invited him to dine, then what of it?

He was just a block away from the restaurant and its wine when he chanced to look down at a newspaper that had fallen onto the street. One look at the headline in the paper and Severus froze:

CHILD MURDERERS ARRAINED IN COURT

The headline itself was not what caught his attention. No, it was the accompanying photo of a very large man next to his very frightened wife.

Petunia Evans.

Severus could easily see Petunia killing a child. Hell, she would have happily killed me when we were kids. He began to scan the article, and the more he read, the more an uneasy sense of panic filled his mind. Surely Dumbledore wasn't stupid enough to send him there. I told him what kind of a monster she was.

But in the fifth paragraph, he found the words that would change his life: "The victim's name, previously withheld by the police, was today revealed to be six-year-old Harry James Potter, the nephew of Mrs Dursley. The child had been living with the Dursleys since his parents passed away in 1981. It was also revealed that the child had been repeatedly beaten and raped by Mr Dursley for at least six months prior to his death."

Every part of Severus's body felt numb. I held the boy in my arms. I wanted to take him in and protect him, but Dumbledore said…

Dumbledore.

With a blinding fury, Snape found a blind alley and apparated back to the ward line at Hogwarts. He raced up the path towards the school's entrance, pushing past students as he went along, and flew up several staircases to the headmaster's office. Instead of using the password to enter the office, he blasted the statue and the door into pieces and raced upstairs.

Dumbledore was sitting on his desk eating a bag of chocolate-covered almonds, a gift from an American friend, when he heard the blast from below.

He assumed that some student was playing with fireworks, but then Severus Snape appeared before him, his wand in one hand, a muggle newspaper in the other, and a look of utter rage on his face.

"Severus, my boy. What's wrong?"

Snape slammed the newspaper onto the headmaster's desk. One look at the headline and the photo and Dumbledore's face went white.

"No!"

He looked up and found his potions master pointing his wand at him, tears falling down his cheeks.

"What the fuck have you done?" Severus cried.

Dumbledore had no idea.

16 October 1986—Little Whinging, Surrey

A few hours later, Albus Dumbledore apparated to Little Whinging.

How was this possible? How could Harry die? This was beyond catastrophic. All eyes will be on him from now on, each one of them accusing him of murder—as if I was the one doing the beating! All I did was hide the boy in the safest place I could. Could I have stopped by to check on him from time to time? Perhaps. But that would not have solved the real problem—the cursed scar. It was that scar that drove muggles crazy. He was sure of it. How could a piece of Voldemort embedded into a baby's forehead not end up spreading death and misery to everyone who comes near?

Part of him was glad the boy was dead. At least, that's one less piece of Voldemort to deal with in the coming years.

But none of that was important at this particular moment. What was important was to hide any evidence of blood magic. The DMLE did not need to know about that.

And so he went and stood just beyond the ward line outside Number 4 Privet Drive and allowed his eyes to focus on the magic enveloping the house.

Nothing.

Where did it go? He neither saw nor sensed any blood ward or even a remnant of one. The anti-apparition and anti-animagus wards were still working, albeit weakly, but the blood one was gone completely.

Where did it go? Who took it away? And how did they take it away without alerting me?

Voldemort.

It must be the prophecy. What else makes sense?

22 October 1986—Kurbnesh, Albania

There were 1,138 people living in the tiny village of Kurbnesh, located in the mountains of northern Albania. Why, out of all those people, the wraith of Voldemort decide to possess Sotir Plium was a mystery even to Voldemort himself.

Sotir was a young man with very little education and even less sense. He worked on his Uncle Ivan's farm and lived alone in a run-down shack behind the main house and near the chicken pens.

Every morning, it was Sotir's job to get up before dawn, feed the chickens, collect the eggs, milk the cows, ready the equipment for the day, and then bring the eggs and milk to the main house for that morning's meal. After said meal, Sotir was given one job after another by his uncle until, near sunset, he was allowed to share in the family supper before going back to his shack to drink and fall asleep.

Throughout each day, the most intellectually stimulating thought that went through young Sotir's head was, "Will it rain?"

Of course, when Voldemort's wraith took over the boy's body, he was capable of far more intelligent conversation. But occasions for him to demonstrate this safely were rare. So rare were those occasions that, after about a month, Voldemort had almost forgotten why he had gone to Kurbnesh and to this particular farm in the first place.

It was, he felt the need to remind himself as often as possible, to follow-up on a rumor. Supposedly, a very ancient dark mage lived in this town—and had lived there for close to 2,000 years. More specifically, he was said to live somewhere in the forest adjacent to Sotir's uncle's farm.

And so, each night that Sotir was not too drunk, Voldemort ordered the boy to leave his shack and travel through the woods in search of this mage who seemed to have the secret of eternal life.

His searches had followed a very logical, organized plan. Each night would be spent exploring one acre of the forest as carefully and as thoroughly as possible—leaving no stone unturned, so to speak. The next night, he explored the next acre, and so on and so forth. He was determined to search every corner of this forest before giving up, killing Sotir, and trying agin somewhere else.

There had been only two incidents during the month-long search that warranted any change in his plans. In the first, he stumbled upon a rather angry fox that Voldemort was forced to kill. In the second, he encountered a couple making love beside a rather dingy-looking tree. Voldemort considered killing them, but he figured that would raise too many alarms among the villagers. Hence, he merely wiped their memories so they'd forget having seen Sotir and then compelled them to hurry home.

But finally, after five long weeks, Voldemort's patience paid off when he moved past a particularly large cluster of trees and came upon a cabin that had not been there just moments before. The cabin was not much larger than Sotir's but was in far better shape, the walls looking well-built and freshly-painted, the windows clean, and the smoke from the chimney filling the air with the aroma of a delicious meal about to be served.

"I see you found me, young wizard," said a voice. Voldemort looked around but saw no one. "You have come very far to talk to me, to learn my secret. I hope it's worth it."

"You are Rabin the Black, I presume?" Voldemort asked through Sotir.

At this, a form appeared—a middle-aged man wearing a brown robe that had seen better days and carrying a staff as thin as a pencil. "That is one of the names that I have used over the years," Rabin said. "I suppose it will do for tonight."

Voldemort nodded. "And I am—"

"You are Tom Riddle. I know," Rabin said, dismissively. "The dark wizard who was killed by a baby. Pathetic."

At this, Voldemort snarled. "How dare—"

"Silence!" At once, Voldemort went silent, Sotir's tongue locked to the roof of his mouth. He tried moving the boy's arms and legs, but found them held in place by a force he could not counter.

"It's too bad you didn't find me last week," the black mage said. "I might have let you go in peace. However, the goblins came to me first, and as I've always tried to maintain a cordial relationship with them, I agreed to their request and their…generous offer of compensation."

As Rabin spoke, Voldemort grew more and more worried. Finally, he decided to cut his losses, free himself from Sotir, flee, and let Rabin deal with the young dead farm boy.

But when he tried to expel his wraith form from Sotir's body, nothing happened. He tried several times, each time with the same result.

"No, you're not escaping this, pathetic dark lord." A silver glow began to surround Sotir. When the glow covered every part of him, Rabin raised his hand, lifting the body and drawing it closer.

"Oh, I would love to tear your wraith into thousands of pieces and put each piece into its own unbreakable jar and bury the jars in remote locations all over the world. But, alas, I gave the goblins my word that I would keep you in one piece and send you back to London. Apparently, they have a score to settle with you."

At this, Rabin pulled out a wooden box covered in runes Voldemort had never seen before. Rabin then uttered an incantation in a language that hadn't been spoken in two millennia and separated Voldemort's wraith from the poor farm boy. When the now-slivery wraith was free, Rabin tossed the boy aside and then set the box on the ground, opened the lid, and directed the wraith into the box until it was trapped inside.

"I do thank you for the gift of the boy," Rabin said as he closed the box. "I've been needing a good test subject for some time. And do please give my best to the goblins."

When the lid was shut tight, trapping Voldemort, Rabin stood back and watched as it disappeared with a pop, headed for Gringotts Albion.

Moments later, another, much larger box appeared out of nowhere.

"Ah, excellent, my reward." After checking the box for traps, Rabin opened it wide, smiled, and turned to the unconscious body of the young Albanian farmer. "Take a look at all these wonderful toys, Sotir. I'm sure you and I will have all sorts of fun with them. Shall we get started?"