Dumbledore. Ron. Percy. Snape. Sirius. Those were only a few names of Voldemort's victims. But they were the ones that featured in seventeen-year-old Harry Potter's mind foremost. They were the reason he was standing here now, in front of Lucius Malfoy's mansion. That and the information he had received from - no, more exactly like hexed, kicked and punched out of - Draco Malfoy about a Death Eater meeting tonight. And the spells required to de-activate the many magical traps surrounding the large house. Hermione didn't know where he was, she was back at Hogwarts, in a magical coma in the hospital wing. Yet another one of Voldemort's victims. Not dead, but something worse. She had been force fed large amounts of the Draught of Living Death by a Death Eater spy and the only cure for that was to let the victim sleep it off. Although no one wanted to say it, it could take years for the Head Girl to wake up, if she ever did.
That had been the final straw for Harry. There were no nameless faces to fight for to him. They all had names and pasts and would have probably had incredibly bright futures if not for one man. One man that had plagued Harry since he was a year old. Of course, the weight of all of this had probably caused him to go slightly mad. But he didn't care. He was standing on the doorstep of Lucius Malfoy, all of the traps were disarmed. All of the dangerous creatures that had tried to take him out were dead, their carcasses littering the lush, manicured lawn.
The door? No problem. It was the simplest spell out of all the ones he had used. Because Lucius Malfoy was so over-confident in the fact that no one would be able to disarm the traps. Of course, Harry had been able to, though. After studying encyclopaedias of hexes and curses, reading nearly the entirety of the Restricted Section and having private duelling lessons from Dumbledore himself before he had died, Harry had a pretty good grasp on almost all the curses. Including the Unforgivables, a feat he had demonstrated to his audience of one, himself, moments earlier.
"Alohomora!" he cried the spell aloud and the front door of the Malfoy Manor opened loudly. The force that Harry had put behind the simple spell had caused the door to blow completely off its hinges and fly to the middle of the front hallway. Silence met his ears as he stepped in, his feet echoing on the marble floor. Looking around, Harry twirled his wand around a few times before grasping it tightly in his hand.
"Come out, come out," he invited, a deranged smile on his face. His voice had echoed off the vaulted ceiling of the front hallway. "Wherever you are," he added the last part in a whisper, his green eyes darting about. No one had come to prevent him from reaching his destination, something he found rather amusing. Looks like Lucius is getting lax with security, he chuckled a bit and pulled the Invisibility Cloak out of one deep pocket of his robes. He then shucked the outer robe he wore. It would be too constricting and would hinder his movements, something the Muggle clothing of jeans and a t-shirt wouldn't do. Harry pulled the Invisibility Cloak over him and then held his wand in his palm,
"Point me," this spell was whispered now. If they hadn't come rushing to the front hallway, he wasn't going to spoil the element of surprise that he had on them now.
After using the Point Me spell to find his way to what seemed to be the deepest part of the house, Harry paused outside a set of ornately carved and decorated doors. Inside, he could hear muffled voices, as if there was a charm on the room. Knowing the Malfoys, there probably was one. And there was a trap on these doors too. But a simple one. Of course, Lucius hadn't expected anyone to get this far.
"Exarmo," just as he suspected, the simple trap disarming charm had worked. A slight green glow washed over the doors and the humming sound that had been almost inaudible moments before disappeared entirely. Now, there was nothing stopping him. Harry pulled off the Invisibility Cloak and tucked it away in a dark corner before facing the doors.
"Alohomora!" Harry roared, pointing his wand at the doors. Like before, the charm had so much power behind it that it did more than unlock the doors. This time, it caused the wood to break into thousands of splinters, creating a hole where the doors once were. Once more, silence met his ears. But this was a shocked, stunned silence.
Until it was broken by a sinister laugh and the slightly echoing sound of one person clapping.
At the opposite end of the room, Lord Voldemort rose from his chair, an expression of malicious glee contorting his snake-like face.
"Well, well, well, Mr. Potter. To what do we owe this visit?"
A Death Eater started to mutter something, but Voldemort waved a hand at the errant wizard and sent him flying against the wall.
"Fuck you, Voldemort." Harry was livid. He was just itching to put the smug bastard out of the world. Kill him, chop him up into little bits and feed him to Remus on the full moon.
"Language, Mr. Potter," a smirk flitted across the lipless mouth of Voldemort.
"Crucio!" Harry called, a jet of red light emitting from the end of his wand. Without even flinching, Voldemort raised his own and the spell bounced off it, harmless.
"Now, now, now, Harry," the voice was patronizing, a sure-fire way to get under Harry's skin and it was working, "you really shouldn't be using magic like that."
Something in Harry snapped then and he began to fire any and every spell he knew at Voldemort. That was his mistake. In between the random firing of curses, Voldemort got in one of his own,
"Juvenis iterum!" It was one Harry hadn't heard before. He felt a pain consume his body, but he wouldn't cry out. In a second it was over and Harry was glaring darkly at the ever-smirking Dark Lord.
But something felt wrong about it. For some reason, Harry felt . . . shorter. There was another whispered hex - "Oculus reconcilio." Something about eyes. Harry felt a burning pain in his retinas and the world seemed to be getting blurry. He ripped off his glasses and blinked. Without the corrective lenses, his eyes could see perfectly.
"What the bloody hell?" Harry whispered, gripping his wand all the more tighter. His anger still hadn't abated, but it was now joined by confusion.
As Harry was busy being confused, a spell was being cast.
"Demo tempus," Lucius Malfoy whispered, his voice quiet enough to pass by the Boy Who Lived ear's without being noticed.
"Have fun, dear boy," Voldemort was laughing now. Harry tried to move, but he felt like his feet were stuck to the ground. Had someone cast Locomotor Mortis on him when he wasn't looking? The word was beginning to spin around him, but his feet were firmly on the ground. Wave after wave of dizziness washed over him as he felt like he was swaying. It was like he was a statue. A hand grabbed his wand and forced it away.
Harry cried out when someone did
that, but he couldn't move to stop them. Something else was shoved into
his hands, a bundle of papers of some sort. The room was still twirling,
now the colours were blending together. Someone was casting another spell
now. "Domo vulnus," were the words. There was a feeling of burning
pain in his scar for a minute, then the feeling of something heavy and
large hitting Harry's head. Then blackness overcame his senses.
The children at the orphanage were immediately curious about the new-comer. He looked to be around six years old, with messy black hair. They didn't know what colour his eyes were, as they were closed. The new boy had been unconscious when one of the supervisors at the orphanage had found him and he still was. Three days had passed since the discovery of the boy.
In the hospital wing of the orphanage, he now lay. He tossed and turned in his sleep, as if he was being plagued by nightmares. The nurse was intensely concerned about him. He had arrived wearing clothing that was obviously too big for him and with a bundle of papers in his hands. One was a letter addressed to the London Home for Orphans, which the headmaster - a Mr. Harry Hewenson - had read carefully. And the other item in the papers was another letter, this one addressed to Tom Marvolo Riddle, which, according to the other letter, was the name of the child.
Nurse Jane Matthews looked down at the small boy as she took his temperature. The poor thing. In the letter it said that his mother had lived long enough to name him and up until recently, he had been living with his grandmother, who died tragically in a fire. The letter had been written by a friendly neighbour who had known the child and wanted to see the young Riddle boy in excellent care.
As she looked back down at the bed, Nurse Matthews saw the boy's eyes fluttering open. Once the lids were fully pulled back, she found herself looking at a pair of the greenest eyes she had ever seen. The emerald orbs were filled with confusion and a sense of apprehension.
"Are you all right, Tom?" Nurse Matthews asked the child.
Tom blinked, confused. "My name's not Tom," he said clearly. "It's . . ." the child paused, trying to think of his own name. But after a few minutes of helpless floundering in his own mind, he turned back to nurse, worry evident on his face. "I don't remember."
"That's all right dear," Nurse Matthews said, patting him on the head. "That's quite all right, dear."