Disclaimer: I own nothing related in any way whatsoever to the Harry Potter universe.
Harry Potter and the Strength of Three
Prologue
Harry sat in the back seat of Uncle Vernon's luxury sedan silently, a glazed look to his eyes. He didn't notice the crackling tension that almost seemed to vibrate through the air. Or if he did, he showed no reaction. Vernon Dursley, an aging overlarge pork-rind of a man, stared at the road in front of him with a single minded determination. He kept his jaw clenched, jowls quivering, and every once in a while his eyes would dart to the rear view mirror, causing him to refresh his flagging scowl. Petunia Dursley, a horse-faced woman with a giraffe-like neck, was rail thin, almost skeletal. A stark contrast to her husbands blubbery mass. Every once in a while she would murmur something to the large man driving the car, who would growl back a response through clenched teeth. She cast furtive glances to the back seat several times in the span of a few minutes.
Harry was so self absorbed on the ride to his relatives home he didn't even notice his cousin, who shared the back seat with him. Vernon and Petunia Dursley's bundle of joy, Dudley, had always been a large person. Humongous, in fact, with several chins at the age of ten that matched his father's. But Dudley was no longer ten years old. He was sixteen, and changed. Every few moments he would glance sideways at Harry, open his mouth as if to say something, then snap it shut with a frown. He sent hateful scowls towards the occupants of the front seat, the cause of Petunia's murmurs and Vernon's grinding teeth.
Indeed, if Harry had been paying attention, he would have found the situation extremely out of character for the Dursleys. He probably would have laughed. Laughter, however, was something that was far from his thoughts. His mind was plagued with images of a dying man. A curse, a cry of triumph, and a look of surprise.
A veil, fluttering lazy invitation to the arch it hung suspended from, as if in a light breeze. Only there was no breeze. And the invitation led to death.
Sirius, Harry's Godfather that he had known for only two short years, had died less than a month ago. Harry was to blame as much as Bellatrix LeStrange, cousin of Sirius and his murderer. Harry had led the only father-figure he had known to his own death. Not only that, but he had led his closest friends into a trap. They all had come very close to death that night. Hermione, cursed by Dolohov with a slash of purple fire across her chest, a slight 'oh' of surprise as she crumpled to the floor, unconscious. Ron, attacked by horrors reminiscent of a muggle film. Ginny, Neville and Luna. Of all the people that had accompanied Harry to the Department of Mysteries, not a one left unscathed.
All of this, Harry's fault. If only he had listened to Hermione, if only he had tried to use the mirror Sirius had gifted to him, if only Kreacher had spoken the truth. So many 'ifs'.
Still in a daze, Harry collected his trunk and Hedwig's cage from the boot of the car. He climbed the stairs as if on autopilot, not noticing the argument that erupted in the living room below, or the sound of a door slamming as he walked into his room. Setting Hedwig's care in its customary resting place atop his dresser, he drug his heavy trunk to the foot of his bed, releasing his hold to let it drop with a dull thump.
Opening the window as to allow his snowy owl access upon her return, Harry turned and shuffled to his bed. Laying down with a sigh, he began staring at the ceiling in his room.
Sirius was dead, Cedric was dead. His parents were dead, and his friends had nearly died. All for him. All for a prophecy that had only one possible outcome.
Harry would one day fight Voldemort, and he would die.
He saw no other end. Voldemort was the strongest, most evil dark wizard the world had ever seen, and he would kill Harry. A skinny boy with a scar was no match for such power.
Day turned into night, night into the light of early morning, and still he stared unceasing at his ceiling. His outlook, however, was slowly changing. Sadness turned to anger, despair to determination. He was going to die, of that he had no doubt. But that did not have to be the only outcome. As the hours ticked by, morning turned to afternoon, afternoon to evening, and still he hadn't moved but for the slow blinking of his eyes.
Voldemort. Tom Marvolo Riddle. Half blood leader of an army of pure blood wizards, all of them darkest of dark. Vile, unclean. All of Harry's sorrow could be traced back to one man. All of his problems over the years, having to live with hateful relatives, being famous, loved or hated by the whole of the wizarding world.
As Harry finally dropped off into slumber, two thoughts raged through his mind.
He was going to die.
But Tom Riddle would die with him.
A/N I redid this first chapter because I felt the original prologue wasn't very good. I hope you like it.
Please continue reading, and for my sake, Review!