Synopsis: AU. In a world where Sybil Trelawney is never born, the prophecy remains, but goes unheard. How different will Harry Potter's life be growing up in a world where Voldemort won? How long until a brilliant young man is noticed by the ever more brilliant Dark Lord?
Pairing: Harry Potter and Voldemort, Draco Malfoy and Hermione Grainger, Blaise Zabini and Daphne Greengrass, Theodore Nott and Luna Lovegood.

AN: So here it is! I warned you guys there'd be time skips, but I doubt you were expecting this. Don't worry, I'll tie up the events of the last four years in the next few chapters :P But I don't like kids in the real world, so I couldn't write anymore about our Harry at age eleven! Hope you enjoy the next instalment, and thank you to everyone that reviewed the last chapter. I have it linked to my email, and honestly, they make me ridiculously excited ;)

EDITED: May 2017


Chapter 6

31st October 1995

A fifteen year old boy with a mop of wild black hair, eyes the colour of a killing curse and a vocabulary akin to a muggle sailor – this is Harry James Potter at the beginning of his fifth year. He also happened to be in the midst of a particularly imaginative fight, which had become a rather happy habit as of late.
Exhausted and breathing heavily, he paused to wipe away the sweat that had his hair plastered to his forehead. Opening his stinging eyes, he caught sight of himself in the mirrored walls of the room they had self appointed for their weekly exercise. He was caked in dust and dirt, his forehead dripping with sweat, and his white school shirt had become transparent against the perspiration of his chest. His locket hung loosely about his neck, cool against his hot skin; the emerald encrusted snake matching the glinting menace in his own green eyes. He tilted his head, distracted by the mad grin the reflection wore; he hadn't realised he was even smiling, and was stunned for a moment to be reminded considerably of Bellatrix.

"Pay attention, Potter. You won't beat us both when you aren't even looking. You aren't that good!" jeered the arrogant blonde, whom Harry had the misfortune of counting amongst his closest friends.

"Oh, aren't I?" Harry called back, not bothering to flinch as a cutting hex rebounded from a wall close to his ear.

"You're exhausted already," remarked Blaise as he approached, looking intense and haggard. He always took their duels very seriously. "You can't honestly hope to take us both simultaneously."

Harry offered a tight, knowing smile. Draco's eyes began to widen with surprise and mild horror, recognising the expression of his friend well. Blaise raised his wand. Draco recoiled. Moments later, both the boys were gagged and being held from the ceiling by their ankles. They thrashed about wildly, as Harry looked up at them and chuckled. He enjoyed his life.

Half an hour later, after taking liberal advantage of the showers kindly provided by the Room of Requirement, the three boys were walking towards the great hall in animated discussion. They had replaced their 'duelling robes' with their school robes, and had caught their breath. All three still had an unmistakeable flush of pleasure and excitement in their cheeks as they spoke.

"We nearly had you, Harry," claimed Draco. "If you'd have been an inch or so further left when I cast the imperius curse, it'd have been over."

"No, it wouldn't have been," interrupted Blaise with a frown. "He could break your hold before you could even think of another spell. Although I'm sure it was purely luck that let him escape my fiend fyre-"

"Fiend fyre? That fire was about as dark as a first year Hufflepuff!" exclaimed Draco, laughing and shoving Blaise playfully.

"Well you can't cast the spell at all!" responded Blaise, hotly. "We only learned it a month ago!"

Harry listened to the two arguing comfortably with a lazy smile on his face. They had begun their own little duelling club at the end of last year, and he really quite enjoyed it. For one thing, it gave him some time to rough house away from the prying eyes of the rest of the school. Of course, everyone knew he was brilliant, but he only really liked to show off in front of his nearest and dearest. It helped that the club gave him the opportunity to spend quite a bit more time with the boys, who had been so busy studying for the Yule exams lately. Draco and Blaise made great practice, being intelligent, cunning and downright underhanded in a duel.
Everyone in their year was ranked in accordance to duelling ability on a big chart outside the Head Mistress' office, and this year the two were ranked third and fourth, with Draco in the lead. They were duly proud of this, given they'd finally pulled ahead of the Ravenclaw who had been on their tails. They didn't expect, however, to broach the first two spots; Harry and Hermione had been firmly first and second respectively since the rankings began in their second year. Attempts to dislodge them had never gone unpunished.

The last four years had passed quickly for Harry. Much had happened, yet it seemed such a short time ago that he had been a snot-nosed first year jumping at shadows, and terrified of Professor Snape. He had quickly risen in the ranks; from the moment he'd blown up Bellatrix' classroom on his first day, he'd known he was special. He had continued to progress in leaps and bounds, showing an agile comprehension of magic and an almost limitless well of power to draw on. His locket, Slytherin's locket, prevented him from doing anything too incredible or damaging – but Harry still never particularly tired out, still healed quickly and rarely found a spell that was beyond his abilities.

He and Hermione had been placed in the accelerated programme, nicknamed 'the junior death eaters' (or DE for short) from that first Yule, along with Draco and Blaise. It was hard work; they pushed their limits with spells of unbelievable complexity, learned advanced duelling techniques and pushed their bodies and minds to the point of exhaustion. The rewards, however, were very worth it. DE's had their own common room, situated on the seventh floor, with a library that was reportedly better stocked than the Ravenclaws'. They got their own badge, which was treated with more deference than a prefects. They even had their own parties, often hosted by the elder Malfoy at his manor, where they mingled with real death eaters and aristocrats and made what Hermione and Draco called "vital connections".

There was also, as Hermione had recently proven, a real chance of adoption. Children at the orphanage were seldom adopted, due to the stigma surrounding their blood status or the affiliation of their birth parents. The only ones Harry had seen adopted in his childhood were those with living magical relatives that didn't trust the orphanage to raise their kin. Now, however, things were beginning to change.
During the summer, he and Hermione had been up late talking. Harry had conjured some food from the kitchens, and they had spent hours snacking and laughing, feeling as young and mischievous as they were – when Hermione had received an owl. Surprised, she had opened the letter to find it was from Bellatrix. Bellatrix had become quite a mentor to Hermione over the years; pushing her to perform at her best, to put aside childish ideas of morality to gain advantage, and to be supremely confident in all things. Harry knew that they had grown close, and that pureblood society was rather shocked to see Bellatrix doting on a mudblood. There had been rumours that she was going soft, until they saw exactly what Hermione could do. She had proved her brilliance yet again in an inter-house tournament, when a spell she had invented brought a seventh year opponent to his knees within the first three minutes of a duel.

Clutching the letter, her eyes had widened. Harry had questioned her, concerned. She'd gone on to explain that Bellatrix, who's husband had died in the wizarding war and had neither the ability nor desire to bear children, had realised the necessity of preserving the Black line. Regulus, the only other living descendent of the Black line who carried the Black name, did not care for it's continuance. Her sister, Narcissa, carried the Malfoy name. Bellatrix had therefore decided that blood adoption – a worthy replacement for birth children in the eyes of pure blood society – was a viable option. Harry had been confused by this unexpected admission, before he too had blanched in realisation. Bellatrix was going to adopt Hermione, and give her maiden name to her. It was an unprecedented honour, and an utter shock.

The plan, as far as Harry knew, was to go through with the adoption ritual at Yuletide. Hermione was as excited as she was terrified; she was going to be elevated into the ranks of 'pure bloods', and have a guardian who was second only to the Dark Lord. Hermione was going to have a family. She was also going to be tied to Bellatrix for the rest of her life, and have to obey her, as the head of her house. Bellatrix was as demanding as she was mad, so Harry could understand the trepidation.

Harry paused in his nostalgia as they entered the great hall, and immediately headed towards Hermione, who was deep in discussion with Daphne and Astoria Greengrass. Thinking of her upcoming adoption had made him miss her, given she'd not had much time for socialising since the announcement. Between studying, preparing for the ceremony, and dealing with the new found attention, she'd not had much time for him.
He sat down next to her without a word, offering her a grin as she turned a surprised eye towards him. Draco and Blaise sat down awkwardly across from them, next to Astoria. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes as Draco quickly began a conversation with Astoria, pointedly avoiding Hermione.
Draco had always been like this. At first, he'd ignored Hermione out of snobbiness and pride, irritated at the presence of a mudblood in his house. After first year however, even when Hermione blossomed into a brilliant witch and the rest of the house accepted her eagerly as their own, Draco had continued to pretend she didn't exist. Boys fawned all over her, as she had developed physically as well as magically in the four years past, but Draco never even met her eyes. Hermione didn't seem to notice or care, but it irked Harry. He had once heatedly questioned Draco on the matter, and had been surprised by the blonde's answer.
"It would seem disgustingly grasping of me," he had said, "to ignore the girl, only to fall over myself for her attention, now she has proven herself worthy. If Granger wishes to befriend me, then I'm sure she'll speak to me herself."
Harry hadn't pushed the matter, but wondered if Hermione, in her lack of awareness even knew he put such thought into not paying her any attention.

"Well hello, your highness," began Harry, smirking as Hermione batted at him and rolled her eyes. "How do you fair, this fine Hallows eve?"

"Quite well," she smiled tiredly, and Harry noted she had bags beneath her eyes. Hermione always slept fitfully when she had something on her mind.

"And you, ladies?" Harry asked, smiling smoothly towards the Greengrass sisters.

"I'm great." said Daphne, her eyes sparkling with excitement. "Are you boys coming to the Malfoy ball tonight? We were just discussing what to wear!"

"I am indeed coming, and I'm sure you'd look ravishing in anything, Daphne." Harry winked, to which Hermione groaned. Harry was a perpetual flirt, even if he was yet to actually seek out a girlfriend.

"I'm coming," nodded Blaise. "What's the theme this year, Draco, I haven't read the invitation?"
Draco, who had been wearing an expression of quiet surprise, snapped himself back to reality.

"Oh. It's a masquerade ball this year. For the first part of the night, everyone has to wear glamours and mingle. Mother's idea."

"It's such a great idea, too!" responded Astoria, excitedly. "Although I'm not sure I'm too good at glamour charms..."

"It's alright, I'll set yours for you," Daphne responded, soothing her younger sister.

"You're invited this year then, Hermione?" Harry asked, happy but not entirely surprised. Hermione had always been invited to the DE events, but had never been invited to the balls the Malfoys threw independently before. Given her imminent change of status though, it wasn't really a shock.

"Yes," Hermione responded, smiling nervously. "Lady Malfoy sent me a letter, actually. She's eager to meet her soon-to-be 'niece' and would love for me to come to the party. Bellatrix won't be there though, she's away on some business for the Dark Lord."
Hermione glanced up at Draco, who caught her eye. She was talking about the boy's mother after all. She smiled at him, and for the first time in years, engaged him in conversation. "Are these events as enjoyable as rumour says, Draco?" she asked, politely.
The table went quite still, as everyone but Hermione seemed aware of how momentous a step this was. Draco was quiet for a few seconds, before finally responding.

"I enjoy them, yes. They get a little repetitive after a while though. Too many society bints trying to whore themselves into my marriage bed," he pointedly looked towards Pansy Parkinson, who was sat a ways away, conversing with Millicent Bulstrode.
It was a blunt and crude statement for Draco, which Harry put down to nerves, but Hermione chuckled anyway.

"And that's a common thing, is it? For people our age to receive proposals?" she said this in a tone of quiet surprise.

"You have no idea!" exclaimed Daphne, smiling knowingly. "Last time, Garalius Goyle tried to speak to my Father about an engagement. Can you imagine? Me, with a Goyle?" the girl shuddered. "Thankfully, my Father refused outright. He's got his eyes set on engaging me to one of the Krums, from Bulgaria. They've been quite in favour ever since eastern Europe joined the alliance. Plus, they're filthy rich."

Blaise rolled his eyes. Harry, who only knew anything about the pureblood politics through the rants and explanations of his friends, knew Blaise was classed as nouveaux riche amongst other purebloods - and so didn't quite understand the way they saw marriage as a game of chess. Although, Harry also knew from hushed conversations with the Slytherins, that Blaise's mother treated marriage like a rigged game of Russian roulette.

"Oh dear," said Hermione, blushing a tad. "I don't think anyone would do that sort of thing with me, would they?"

"Are you kidding?" asked Harry, smiling genially. "Who wouldn't want to marry you, 'Mione? You're a catch."

"He's right," remarked Draco, before pausing and adopting a look of horrified embarrassment. "What I mean is – with the change in your circumstances, and your academic merit, it's likely you'll receive some propositions. My Mother should have warned you."

"Perhaps you should be her chaperone, Draco," suggested Blaise, a dark smile playing across his lips. "You know, to prevent her being overwhelmed by it all."
Draco threw him a murderous look, and began to speak, but was cut off by Hermione.

"Would you really?" asked Hermione, innocently. "I'd be so grateful. This is all quite new to me."

"I.. Well. Yes, if that's what you want. I'd be happy to help you acclimate," said Draco, not nearly as cool and collected as he usually was.
Harry grinned as the scene unfolded before him, and knew Blaise would be on the receiving end of Draco's wand for putting him in such a compromising position. It was a good thing, all in all. Draco really did need to get off his high horse and get to know the girl who was quickly becoming the star of his house.


After lunch, Harry collared Draco into playing a game of don't-let-the-bludger-knock-you-off-your-broom, and the two headed off towards the black lake alone. Blaise was never much of a flier, and Hermione would rather spend her time reading or experimenting. Even Ron and Neville, who Harry had cajoled Draco into associating with – 'I suppose they are purebloods, in the loosest sense of the term' – were busy with the homework they were almost constantly behind with. Ron was especially lazy, and not especially bright, and he often suffered under the wands of his teachers. Draco claimed that the only Weasleys of this generation with any discernible talent were the twins, Fred and George, that were currently seventh years. They were perhaps the most rebellious teenagers Hogwarts had seen in years, but their obvious magical ability and talents kept them out of suffering too much at the hands of the school's disciplinary system.

"That's their mother's blood," Draco had claimed, ever attached to his idea that blood was the basis of all things. "She's a Prewett by birth. They were a powerful light family that were mostly killed off in the Great Wizarding War. Her brother, Gideon, is mentioned as one of the greatest duellers the light had to offer."

He and Draco had conversations like that now and again, but they almost always ended in awkward silences and tension. Draco knew that Harry's family had been a light one, killed in the war; he knew Harry had been raised without a family because of the ideology that Draco's family had supported. They had never, despite their closeness, talked about how Harry felt about that. It just wasn't done. The only person Harry ever spoke to about his parents was Hermione, who had been by his side since they were toddlers.

In truth, he wasn't sure how he felt about anything anymore. The ideals he had been brought up to believe had been sharply called into question since his time at Hogwarts. Their lessons, of course, taught the same creed as the orphanage. They both taught the history of the wizarding war in the same fashion: the light-affiliated, corrupt ministry had periodically sought to suppress witches and wizards who were skilled in the dark arts. This was ridiculous and prejudiced, given that everyone knows you cannot control what inclination your magical core has. Muggle-born students were raised in the muggle world, and being silly children unable to hide their accidental magic, put the magical world in danger of discovery. The ministry made no move to stop this, because so many of their officials were mudbloods whose allegiance lay with the muggles that raised them, and not with the magical world where they belonged. When the Dark Lord began to try and change the corruption of the ministry, and give equality to dark arts practitioners, he was opposed by a man called Albus Dumbeldore. Dumbeldore was very powerful and clever, but blindly hated the dark arts with the same intolerance that was typical of his age. When Dumbeldore and his followers were defeated, the Dark Lord created the new world and the great wizarding war ended.
Harry had never questioned this much in his childhood; one believes what one is taught as a young child. He had no knowledge of his parents, and no loyalty to their memory. It wasn't until he had stumbled across a secret room in his third year that much of his opinions had changed at all.

It had been the spring of his third year, and Harry had been a few months shy of fourteen. He had been in the library, and rather bored at that, when he picked up a book called 'Security and Sorcery: an advanced guide to warding and detection spells'. Interested, Harry had browsed the book, before a spell bluntly named 'the anti-concealment spell' had caught his eye. It did what it said on the tin, revealing the presence of spaces protected by concealment wards. It was a complex spell, involving seven different wand movements and requiring a very strong control over one's will, and it had taken him several weeks to perfect it.

When he did though, it provided him with hours of fun about the castle. He didn't even tell Draco, his comrade in mischief, or Hermione, who always found new spells fascinating. Instead, he kept the secret all to himself, wanting to explore the hidden crevices of the castle at his leisure. The book had warned him that the type of passages it would reveal depended largely on the caster; it would take someone as magically adept as the person that created the ward to dispel it. This didn't seem to give Harry any problems, however, and before long he had discovered the 'Room of Requirement' – something Blaise had to set to looking for a year previous – and various tunnels that lead out of the castle.

It had been almost summer by the time Harry found the final room that the charm would uncover. His friends had been busy with one thing or another, and he'd been alone on the fifth floor, leisurely using his new spell on a particularly disused corridor, when a door had appeared. Excited, he'd quickly entered the secret room, only to find that it was mostly empty. He'd gone inside, shutting the door behind him and decided to explore more thoroughly before giving up on it. The walls were red and gold – the colour of his house, he mused – and the dusty floor was mostly covered by a large cream rug. Against one wall, there was a large chest of drawers that seemed equally disused. The only thing that gave the room any sense of mystery were five words scrawled across the far wall in a messy script 'The Marauders were here, 1976.'

He had spent many hours that day in the marauders room, finding that it was far from the empty space it had first appeared. In the chest of drawers were various muggle books - Harry had never seen a muggle book, as they had mostly been destroyed for their corrupting influence – and books on spells Harry had never heard of before. There were histories Harry hadn't seen, some recounting the war from the perspective of the enemy. He'd returned to the room to read his secret books many times over the coming months, and shortly after the beginning of his fourth year, he'd found the countless other texts; letters and items that were hidden beneath the floorboards. They'd kick-started Harry's interest in what had really happened in the war that ended shortly after he was born, and began to call into question much of what Harry thought true. Although he was far from starting a rebellion, he did want answers. A small entry scrawled on a piece of parchment beneath the floorboards summed his doubts up perfectly, "History is written by the victors".

He never spoke of the room to his friends. He didn't know how they would react to the ideas that were starting to grow in his heart and mind, and he didn't want to find out. How would his best friends – Draco, the poster boy for pure blood decorum, and Hermione, an avid practitioner of the dark arts that was shortly to be adopted by a woman so steeped in dark magic it was a wonder she'd kept any semblance of sanity – think of him, sat on the floor of a dusty room, reading the philosophical ramblings of a man caught up in the wrong side of the war, who signed his articles only as 'Moony'?

He did, however, slowly begin to make the room more comfortable. It started off with just a few cleaning spells, and tidying all the texts away into the chest of drawers. As time went on, however, he began to add more creature comforts: an arm chair to peruse the books in, a bookshelf to store them more easily, a music player, his own books, a conjured bed for if he wanted a quick rest. Gradually, he created his own den. He didn't sleep there often, or stay there for very long periods of time; but it was nice to have a place he could be away from the world when need be. It was the chalkboard for his developing mind; the place where he was just Harry, where he could learn who 'just Harry' really was.

Most of the time, however, Harry really was just an ordinary teenage boy. His biggest concerns were becoming Captain of the Quidditch team, performing well enough in his classes to avoid a whipping from Bellatrix, getting time to socialise and misbehave with his friends, and of course, being good enough to enter the International Duelling Competition on his seventeenth birthday. The contestants of the competition were treated like celebrities by the students of Hogwarts, and Harry wouldn't mind a little positive notoriety.

Harry and Draco played their game late into the afternoon, varying the rules and generally tiring themselves out. They had the boundless energy of youth, and the same lack of responsibility. It wasn't until Blaise - wearing an unbuttoned dress shirt and a loose tie – arrived looking irritated, and informed them they had twenty-five minutes until the portkey activated to take them to the ball, that they thought of anything but their fun.
Twenty-three minutes of rushed preening later, with Harry forgoing a trip to his own dormitory and instead getting dressed hurriedly in Draco's room, left the boys clean and donning expensive dress robes. Draco had bought said dress robes for him for his last birthday, claiming that he couldn't have his poor orphan friend looking like the pauper he was. Harry had hexed him of course, but had been rather touched by the consideration. Orphans had a limited budget for clothes and school supplies, and he was sick of wearing obviously cheap robes to the Malfoy Balls that Draco had been inviting him to since second year.
Blaise had laid on the bed waiting, unabashed as the boys flung their clothes on. Both of them had long ago got over Harry's proclivity towards nakedness, and lost their shyness about the matter. Although they still tried to impart some pureblood etiquette on him in public, they had resigned themselves to his messy ways in private.

"Ready?" drawled Blaise, punctual and impatient as ever. The portkey was beginning to glow.

"Ready!" Harry replied, brightly.

"Just about," Draco answered, casting a final charm to keep his hair in place. He really was quite vain, when the mood took him.

"Preening for Granger?" teased Blaise, smirking.

"Remind me to hex you for that, later," retorted Draco, glaring.

"Now, now, Drake. Be on your best behaviour." Harry winked, placing a hand on the portkey. "Since she'll kick your arse, if you aren't."

"I'm always a gentleman!" said Draco, indignantly placing his own hand by Harry's.

"Tell that to Pansy Parkinson," muttered Blaise, and Draco punched him playfully on the arm.

"I'm quite looking forward to tonight." Harry said, offering his friends an affectionate smile.

"Should definitely be interesting," agreed Draco.

"Always fun to cause trouble." Harry winked.

"I swear to Morgana, Potter. If you transfigure one of the peacocks again, my mother will personally crucio you into oblivion."

"Your mother loves me, Drake. I'm the son she actually wanted." Harry laughed, and Draco rolled his eyes. The portkey began to warm up.

"Do try to behave yourself, Harry," said Blaise, tiredly. "After all. Draco has a date."

They were tugged from the room before Draco even had a chance to swear at him.


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