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: Hey everyone! Wow, what can I say about the last chapter? At last count, I got 60 reviews on chapter 8. As anyone else that writes fanfiction no doubt knows, reviews mean the world to writers. I adored every single review, especially the people who took the time to write really descriptive ones, but even the simple 'nice chap' reviews mean the world. A special shoutout to my regulars, that keep reviewing every other update! Anyways, here's the update.

On another note, I just wanted to make one thing clear about this fanfiction. It's going to take a while for their to be any real *ahem* heat, between Voldemort and Harry. I really need to reveal more of who Voldemort is as a person, and also build up Harry's character. Harry needs to grow up before he can even think of handling Tom, and I'm not putting a fifteen year old with the Dark Lord. Be prepared for a slow build up, but hopefully, everything that's going on around them will help make the tension more bearable.

ALSO, trigger warnings for violence in this chapter. Although I'm sure you knew it was coming.

(Sorry to keep you! Here's the Chapter!)

EDITED: May 2017


Chapter 9

1st November 1995

Harry stared up into the icy blue eyes of Lord Voldemort, his whole body frozen in position; chin high, wincing, the grip on Harry's hair forcing him to his tiptoes. He was terrified, but Harry was far too clever to resist or flee. Even if he could somehow escape the Dark Lord – an impossible feat in itself – it would only serve to make a dead man walking. Disobedience in Voldemort's regime was rectified swiftly, bloodily.
Voldemort, by contrast, had quickly seemed to find calm. This did not make his sculpted features seem any less intimidating, however, as his snarling, glaring expression settled into that of cold calculation. The wizard released Harry. He instinctually raised a hand to rub away the throbbing pain at the base of his neck, but his hand quickly fell as Voldemort instead ceased him by the collar of his dress-shirt. Voldemort – taller and far stronger than his own scrawny, fifteen year old self – easily held Harry at arms length. The older man's cool, intelligent eyes ran over him, assessing. After a long moment, the Dark Lord's face settled into a sneer.

"I expected you to be older," the Dark Lord said finally, dropping his grip on Harry forcefully. Unable to regain his balance fast enough, Harry fell to the ground heavily. Wincing, he dared to glance up. Voldemort's sneer had only deepened; his handsome face contorted, making him seem particularly menacing.
Harry didn't quite trust himself to speak. He was too afraid to open his mouth, given that he seemed to be accidentally speaking an ancient language, completely unaware. One look at the expression on his Lord's face, however, forced stumbling words from him.

"My Lord, I… I assure you-" he paused. This time, some subconscious part of him had tried listening to the words he was actually saying. He surprised himself back into a shocked silence; he was hissing! He could hear himself, hear the strange words and rasping inflections. How had he not noticed before?
Voldemort eyed him critically. Harry had risen a hand to his throat, massaging his neck as if it would prevent the strange language from spilling out against his will.

The plush carpet of the sitting room was welcome for Harry, given the awkwardness of how he was now sat on the floor. He didn't take his eyes from Voldemort, but neither did he meet his eyes directly. Harry tried not to think about what the thoughtful, callous expression on the older man's pale face meant for him.
"I am astounded -" began the Dark Lord, "That you, an unworthy child – a half-blood – has been given the gifts of Salazar Slytherin."
Harry, listening intently, thought Voldemort was probably speaking English now. Tentatively, he began to speak.

"My Lord, I don't know how or why this happened." Harry had begun the sentence nervously, but more confidently when he realised that he too had returned to English.

Voldemort rolled his eyes. He took a casual step towards Harry, looming over him ominously. Harry resisted the urge to flinch, but his fear must have been obvious because a cruel smile played across the dark lips of the older wizard.

"Are you afraid, little one?" Voldemort jeered, his eyes flashing ominously. His expression amused, but without warmth. He vaguely registered the return of the strange hissing.

Harry bit down on his own tongue as he began to protest this. A primal part of him wanted to refute his claims, to be brave, to protest his innocence. He wasn't, however, a moron. Voldemort had no respect for Gryffindor brashness, and had famously little patience for those who didn't offer him utmost obedience.

"Did you hear me?" repeated Voldemort, a frosty smirk marring his handsome features. "Are you scared, of how I might punish your flagrant disobedience?" the last words were hissed ominously. Harry's pulse quickened considerably, which didn't seem possible, given it was already hammering in his chest.

"I'm not a traitor," Harry had wanted the words to sound strong, and reassuring. His voice had cracked on the final word, however, and it had merely sounded like the cries of a frightened child. He suppose it was, and the part of him that held his self to a rigorous emotional standard, railed against him. He cursed himself for his fear of this man. He cursed himself for making the situation worse.

"No?" asked Voldemort, who was slowly raising his wand. Harry knew that this was a blatant intimidation technique, and it was working perfectly. He was terrified. "And do you think, little one, that it is permissible to run from me? Do you think the little trick you pulled last night was how I expect a loyal follower to behave?" The words were in such a sickly sweet tone of voice, and so threatening, that Harry immediately shuck his head vehemently.

"No. It wasn't-" He began. He was quickly cut off.

"What were you doing outside my quarters, last night?" Voldemort hissed, impatiently.

"Nothing!" Harry insisted. "I was lost, and-"

Whatever he had just been thinking was completely blown away by the next word that came from the Dark Lords mouth. Harry doubled over, clutching his thigh miserably, as a sharp yelp left his throat unbidden.

'Lashius' was a spell that Harry was very familiar with. It was used often as a punishment at Hogwarts, mostly against the lazy or stupid children. Harry, being neither of those things (well, perhaps lazy, but raw talent could go a long ways in disguising that), hadn't felt the effects too often. It mimicked the effect of a leather strap against bare skin. It was a nasty little spell, but effective. It left no marks, had no permanent damage, and served well to get his attention when it had ever wandered in Bellatrix's lessons. This, however, was different. He could literally feel the difference in how powerful the spell was, and this time, the pain was enough to draw a gasp and several ragged breaths from him.

"I will ask you again," came the too calm voice of the Dark Lord. "Why were you outside my rooms last night?"

"I was exploring," Harry said, desperately. "Honestly, my Lord, I- I didn't even know they were your rooms. I just, I was just looking around."

Voldemort watched him, considering. "And how long have you known you were a Parselmouth?"

"Just since last night." Harry answered, quickly. He sat up a little straighter on the carpet, trying not to openly nurse the skin where the spell had struck moments before. It wouldn't welt, of course, but it felt like it already had. "I didn't know that what I was talking to was a snake, at the time."

The Dark Lord's expression remained neutral, but he paused. Harry took this to mean he had been believed, and breathed a small sigh of relief. Voldemort's sharp eyes found his.
"Last night. When you were hiding from me -" he said this as though Harry should be deeply, deeply ashamed of this. Harry did in fact feel cowed, and wondered how he could have ever thought running from this man would end well. "- You hid yourself. How?"

"I don't know-" he began to answer, but his words ended with another strangled cry. Then another. Then another. Harry was doubled over in pain. Tears had come to his eyes, and he was gasping softly. When he spoke, his voice sounded unsteady. He didn't recognise it.
"Please," he implored, desperately. "Please, I don't know. I really don't know!"

Voldemort's violently red eyes bore into his own frightened green ones, and his whole body felt coiled tight as a spring. He was braced for another lash, but none came. Instead, Voldemort's eyes slowly returned to their moderately less frightening blue. His anger looked to be replaced with mere frustration.

It wasn't as if Harry was going to start babbling about his insane theories about a talking locket. He had almost suggested it, theorised that it was the locket that had hidden him, but one look at the stormy expression of the man stilled his tongue. He couldn't seriously tell the leader of Wizarding Europe (and shortly America, according to the Prophet), that he thought his talisman – an innocuous object in itself, many people through history having worn them for training purposes - was somehow protecting him from harm. Even if this particular talisman had been worn by Slytherin, it seemed beyond comprehension that it would have the ability to perform impossible magic, thousands of years after his death.

Voldemort sat back down. He was looking towards, but seemingly through, him. Harry dare not move from his point on the floor. He felt vaguely humiliated to be kneeling submissively at someone's feet, but not so humiliated that he'd risk his life by standing before being ordered to. He worried his bottom lip, and was struck by how young he felt. Amongst his friends, and other Hogwarts students, he would never let anyone push him around. He was the best dueller Hogwarts had seen in years, and he was clever and powerful and popular.. He'd certainly never allow himself to be made to feel so very small. Yet here, at the mercy of the Dark Lord's wrath, he felt very like the naive teenager he actually was. He didn't like the feeling at all. As much as the orphanages he'd grown up in were decent, and he'd had friends, they quickly taught you a certain hardness. In any institution, without the unconditional love of a parent, one became at least a little hardened. How could you not? If another boy picked on you, who's arms do you find comfort in? If you have a nightmare, who can you crawl into bed with? Harry only knew this about himself through an uncomfortable amount of introspection, but it had given him a very real aversion to vulnerability.

Voldemort's eyes focused back to Harry. They were blank now; part of the same neutral mask Harry had become accustomed to the few times he had seen the Dark Lord, whether in the flesh or in print.

"I am going to take you to my home," said Voldemort, very calmly. The threat was gone from his voice now, but there was an absolute authority to the way he spoke. He was a man very used to being obeyed, and Harry didn't want to challenge that habit. "Where I am going to question you with veritaserum. If what you have said is true, then you have nothing to fear," he said this as though he'd already presumed this wasn't the case. "If you have lied to me, then I will execute you, and hang your corpse from the Hogwarts Astronomy Tower as a warning to any who might think to copy you."

He spoke the threat so matter-of-factly that Harry briefly wondered if he'd heard him correctly. He had known the Dark Lord was cold blooded, had executed thousands in his rise to power, but he had never expected anyone could be unemotional when contemplating murder. In Harry's mind, murders happened when a party was angry. That was understandable, in a sense, how one could kill when tensions got high. He'd been in many an impassioned state in duels, and it made sense how in a war, one could take that passion to the point of death. Yet, Harry had to bite back a shiver at the thought of this man ending his life, with the same apathetic expression, like taking his life were as simple as swatting a fly.

"You're going to be at my property for at least the next twenty-four hours, so go ready an overnight-bag. If you run," Voldemort paused significantly, eyeing him. "I'll assume you were lying to me, and act accordingly."
Harry nodded. He rose to his feet, bowed, and fled the room.

Could today get any worse?


Voldemort watched the boy go, his eyes following the child's frightened departure dispassionately. This was a problem. An unforeseen, difficult problem. He allowed himself a rare sound of exasperation and sat back in the arm chair. Wandlessly and non-verbally, he locked the doors to the sitting room. He had no desire to speak to his servants now, and definitely not to look upon the obsequious form of Lucius Malfoy.
There were two things that could come from his discussion with the boy. Either the boy was lying, and his strange abilities were somehow linked to the ever resilient rebel armies; their underground militia trying – albeit feebly – to strike against him. In that case, Voldemort would kill him and make an example of him. He wondered, though, if this would make any difference. He didn't doubt that the child could be lying. He remembered how easily he had formed the Death Eaters right under the long nose of Albus Dumbeldore, at the tender age of sixteen, little older than the Potter boy was now. The light side could usually be relied upon to underestimate the vast majority of their enemies until it was too late.
The second option was that the boy was telling the truth. That he had been unaware of his ability to speak Parseltongue, and possession of odd magical gifts. That would suggest that he was likely somehow – and the link would have to be very tenuous, as he knew the bloodlines very well – related to Salazar Slytherin, and in possession of his gifts. That would make the Potter boy another Slytherin heir, secondary to himself as he was younger, but an heir all the same. Being a descendent of one of the founders mattered little outside Hogwarts, but the magical power that usually went along with that bloodline could prove tricky.

Voldemort supposed it came down to what he wanted. He needed capable servants, he wanted his people to prosper. The whole point of taking over the magical world – other than that he was naturally inclined to seek power – had been to restore it to it's former glory. He had successfully wiped the muggle stains from the face of magical Britain, and now, the children of the revolution were thriving. Perhaps gifted children were the natural outcome of removing muggle influences, and providing an education far superior to what he had received in the old world. Still, Voldemort wondered as he glared at the ornate ceiling decorations, was he willing to risk nurturing a rival in his own back yard?
Voldemort snorted derisively at this thought, realising he was being rather presumptuous to think the Potter boy was anywhere near his level of power or genius. The boy had looked ready to cry by the time he left, and had reacted so terribly to the little lashing spell. Really, the boy should have been grateful he hadn't used the cruciatus curse. It was a thousand times more painful, and could have serious long-term effects. That was exactly why Voldemort hadn't used it; he had no desire to cripple one of Hogwarts star pupils, as he might just be innocent. Voldemort was building an army, and he couldn't break every child that showed any promise, if he wanted said army to function.

The function of the army was a matter in itself. Not only was Voldemort on the verge of finally toppling the resistance from magical America, he was also quelling the recent fires of resistance on his own turf. Older muggleborns, escapees from the final days of the last wizarding war, and British wizards that had been blessedly away from English soil during said war. They were not many, but neither had the Death Eaters been many. Voldemort was being vigilant, careful to keep those threats at bay. The best thing about being a dictator was that he didn't have to bother with all the red tape when he suspected someone might be working against him - he just killed them - he was a fucking Dark Lord, it was in his job description.
America was taking longer than he'd anticipated. As he'd long ago predicted, the middle east had caused some problems for him over the last few years. Arabic magic was tricky. The nature of the spells they used, and the effects they had, could be very different to their latin 'equivalents'. As such, counter-spells were more haphazard and he'd lost some good fighters to the battles there. Eventually though, the middle east had been subdued. They'd had enough middle eastern people willingly come to his side – particularly the witches, who were strangely oppressed in that part of the world, despite the magical world being generally less sexist than the muggle equivalent – and they had defeated their opposition. That had been little over a year ago, and now America was on it's last legs. As he spoke, Bellatrix was in Texas, sent to seek out and eliminate the Head Wizard from his hiding place. The coward hadn't been seen in public for years now.

Voldemort stood up, stretched, and unlocked the door with a lazy hand gesture. He had been subjected to this ridiculous social event for too long now, and he tired of it. His only reason for attending had been the unique nature of the masquerade ball. It had been an opportunity for him to keep his ear to the ground, to find out what his people were thinking about. Overwhelmingly, they were thinking about nothing relevant. They were thinking about who was marrying whom, and who was secretly whom's mistress. They were thinking about who had gotten fat, and who had gotten rich. Some of the greasier old men in the crowd were largely thinking about the recently seventeen-year old girls that had blossomed since the last Halloween party. Those types, Voldemort had avoided entirely. His sexual taste was unusual, probably quite immoral, but he had never understood the fascination that many had with innocent, virginal young men and women. Fresh out of Hogwarts and naive, they couldn't possibly be fun to play with. They were too fragile for a true power play, too young to walk the sharp edges of passion's blade. They were boring. Most people were boring, in fact, even those old enough to have a wealth of experience. He suspected the attraction rested on the fact that these weak old witches and wizards did not have any inherent power themselves. They needed to take it, instead, from others. Vulnerable young people, being their only socially acceptable output. People really were quite vulgar. When Voldemort had heard quite enough of what the crowd was thinking, and made an appearance at the feast and after party, he had slipped away. He may have even left that night, if not for his late night intruder.

Speaking of which, Voldemort glanced at the clock, and huffed and impatient sigh. The little brat was taking his time.


Harry stood with his head against the inner-wall of Draco's bedroom, and groaned softly. Draco, Blaise and Hermione hovered nearby, each displaying different facets of the emotions currently causing his guts to churn. Draco looked plainly worried, and every now and then he would rest a comforting hand on Harry's arm or back. Draco was quite a physically affectionate guy (once one got past the Malfoy frostiness), and while this was a kind gesture, it seemed to make him feel worse. Blaise looked very grave, exchanging very serious looks with Harry now and then, as if he alone understood the gravity of the situation he was in. Harry could guess what Blaise was thinking, knew just as well the bloody reputation of the Dark Lord. They had never heard of anyone going to his home before, not outside the Death Eaters, which suggested no one had lived to tell the tale if this had happened before. Hermione, who was perhaps the calmest of all of them, merely look thoughtful. She was looking at Harry like he was some complex arithmancy problem that she was determined to figure out.

"So you just started speaking Parseltongue?" asked Draco, bewildered. "To his snake? Have you seen that thing?"

"For the third time," muttered Harry, as he tried in vain to get the cool of the wall to soothe his recent headache. "Yes. And before you ask again, no, it's never happened before."

Draco nodded, a look between fear and awe clouding his features. Harry could guess why. Parselmouth was an ancient trait, passed down the Slytherin line, and supposedly only showing up in the purest and most powerful of magical lines. Anyone who could speak Parseltongue would be instantly more respected by the traditional, pureblood society that Draco was raised in. However, there was more to it than that. Parselmouths had a definite propensity towards dark magic, and the only Parselmouth in living memory was the Dark Lord himself. As much as Harry was sure that Draco respected the Dark Lord, he doubted he wanted his best friend to become to next Voldemort.

"Did anything happen beforehand?" asked Blaise, quietly. "Did anyone speak to you, cast a spell on you, anything?"

"I think I would have mentioned that," answered Harry, a little too sharply.

"And there definitely isn't a spell that allows you to learn Parseltongue," added Hermione, slowly and thoughtfully. "It's theorised that the ability is passed down in the blood, but it's very recessive. The likelihood of you inheriting it from a family where neither parent was a Parselmouth is… extremely unlikely."

"So what does that mean?" asked Harry. As he spoke, he was hurriedly throwing things into a small bag. Shrinking clothes – Draco's, as he hadn't thought to bring a change of them – along with some toiletries, his journal, and a book. Harry wasn't sure he'd be in a position to leisure read at the home of the Dark Lord, but he remained optimistic. If Voldemort didn't kill him, he might allow him to spend some time not being interrogated.

"Well," began Hermione. "It could mean that your parents were not your parents…"

Harry raised an eyebrow. The briefest possibility that he might have a family alive somewhere made his stomach do a strange jump, but he quickly squashed it with his own common sense.
"That's unlikely. I look too much like my parents. I've seen a picture of them before," muttered Harry, quickly finishing his packing and throwing a concerned look at the clock above Draco's bed.

"There are spells-" Hermione began, sounding unsure. Blaise cut her off.

"I think that's hardly likely. Trust me, spells to establish paternity are extremely simple. I very much doubt that the war-orphans went untested, since so many of them were displaced." Blaise's eyes were serious and cold at this. Harry knew exactly why he knew so much about paternity spells, but he had no time now to comfort his friends.

"Then what?" demanded Draco, his worry giving his voice a hard edge.

"I think it might be my locket," Harry said this wearily, as if expecting to be immediately corrected. At the confused looks of his friends, he sighed, and pulled the locket from beneath his robes. The locket had a habit of sticking quite well to his skin.

"Your locket..?" asked Hermione, confused.

"I haven't got time to explain, and it probably sounds mad." Harry swung the bag over his shoulder, and pocketed his wand. He took a deep, steadying breath. "But this is Slytherin's locket, it was worn by Bellatrix and Voldemort before me. Lately – well, more than lately really – it's been acting strange. It's been speaking to me."

The looks on his friend's faces turned from confusion to concern, but he continued on, dropping eye contact in hopes of not seeing the moment they decided he'd gone mental.
"It was what hid me from Voldemort last night. I asked it to, and… then I was invisible. It wasn't even like a disillusionment charm, it was actually like I briefly ceased to exist. Voldemort cast loads of spells and couldn't see me." Harry said this all in a rush, like it'd be easier to say it if he said it quickly.

Slowly, Hermione began to nod. "It must be an incredibly powerful magical object," she said, and tentatively, she touched the locket.
"Ow!" she yelped, jumping back. "Gods, that's so cold. How do you stand it?"

"Cold?" he asked, looking down at his locket in confusion and holding it in his hands. "What do you mean?"

Hermione stared at him for a long moment, before seeming to shake herself and return to her senses. "I can't say for definite, Harry, but I think you might be right about that locket. When I get back to Hogwarts this afternoon, I'm going to go to the library and see what I can find out," she said, carefully. "Maybe the Black Library too. Bellatrix made me a secret keeper for our new home. I think that object might be rather darker than a mere talisman."

Harry nodded, sending her a grateful smile. He didn't know how useful the information would be now, given that he'd soon be under the scrutiny of the Dark Lord.
"Harry," began Hermione, a little nervously. "I wouldn't mention your theory to the Dark Lord. He'd probably just think it were silly."

Harry registered that her voice was strained, like she were lying. The brief, clever voice in the back of his mind suggested it was because she knew that he'd soon be subject to truth serum and perhaps legilimency. He crushed the thought quickly, in case he was right. He merely nodded at her.
As he turned to leave, he gave Draco and Hermione a hug. He promised them that he'd be alright, although he wasn't sure he believed it.

He and Blaise exchanged a long, significant look. Finally, the boy pulled him into a rough hug. When he pulled away, he said;
"Do you want me to see if I can come with you?" Blaise asked, his voice very serious.

It was a silly question, really. They both knew that the Dark Lord was hardly likely to let him bring a friend, but the offer was a testament to Blaise's bravery, and his love for Harry. Harry shook his head, smiling sadly.
"I'll be fine, guys. Really, what's the worst that could happen?" he smiled weakly.

Minutes later, as he made his way down the winding corridors of Malfoy Manor, and towards the waiting Dark Lord, he found himself considering that question again; What was the worst that could happen?

He sighed, resigned. He was probably going to find out.


Instead of a cute sign off reminding you to review (although I still want you to! :) ), I'd like to dedicate this chapter to Terry Pratchett. If I ever become a half-way decent writer, it'll be because of the wonderful stories this man filled my childhood with. "So much universe, and so little time."