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.

A/N: Sorry this is late guys. I seriously underestimated exactly how much partying would be involved in freshers week, and how said partying would be immediately followed with hungover essay planning. I'll try to update as much as I can this year, but oh my gods, the essays...
The story just hit 1000 followers and I would like to say a special thank-you to everyone who has ever read, followed or reviewed the story. I never thought it'd be this popular, but I do love to write, and I hope this chapter and the ones to follow aren't a disappointment.

This chapter is pretty fast paced, and I wrote it all in one night which isn't like me. Despite the lack of usual procrastination and fiddling around with it, I hope it's fun for you guys!

Edit: May 2017


Chapter Twelve

October 4th 1996

It was the kind of autumn day that was impossible to dress for. The kind of day where the morning was cool and dry, the afternoon uncomfortably hot and humid, and the evening bitterly cold. Early October was a time of year where the weather was having an identity crisis, and for the five boys that were huddled together in the night-time chill of the forbidden forest, this had left them in varying degrees of inappropriate dress. Draco was benefiting from his thick, fur lined coat with it's permanent heating charm; no one was too jealous however, given that he'd looked like a man trapped in a sauna mere hours ago. Theodore was shivering in a thin cotton shirt, looking thoroughly miserable as he scooted as close to the fire they had built as possible without burning himself. Blaise looked quite warm in his wool jumper, but apparently the thing was giving him a rash and he couldn't quite sit still. Dean Thomas was actually wearing a dressing gown that he'd sneaked back into the castle to get once the weather had dropped cooler. Harry alone looked entirely comfortable, laying shirtless on the forest floor, gazing up at the stars and lost in his thoughts. He was broken from the reverie by the voice of Blaise, who was becoming increasingly agitated;

"Remind me again why you've dragged us into the forest – a forest filled with dangerous, blood-thirsty creatures – in the middle of winter?" drawled Blaise, who looked ready to tear the jumper off and be done with it.

Harry smiled lazily, propping his head up on his arms to look at his friend. "It's a blood moon. They're rare. I've heard the forbidden forest gets interesting during the blood moon."

"Probably fills up with vampires..." muttered Theo, darkly.

"Now that's just racist," retorted Harry. "Why would vampires leave their perfectly nice homes just to hang out in the forest?"

"A very good question, Harry," said Draco, darkly. "A better question would be, how on earth are you over there looking so comfortable? It's freezing. You have noticed that we're not on a beach in the Caribbean, correct?"

Harry shrugged. "You are all wizards, aren't you? I'm just using a heating charm."

"A heating charm on your bare skin? All of your skin, sustainably?" asked Dean, looking quite astonished.

Draco tsked. "Let's not underestimate Mister perfect MGS' over there."

Try as he might, Draco was still bitter, even two months after getting the results of their fifth year exams. His Mother and Father had both done very well in theirs and so Harry believed he'd been trying to beat them and further prove his worth as heir. For some reason, he'd become particularly touchy about proving just that over the summer. Harry had tried to reassure Draco that it was silly to try and compare himself to his parents, who had both done their exams when Hogwarts still used the outdated OWLs (ordinary wizarding levels). That system had only six grading levels, and the tests were apparently quite unsuitable for some of the subject matter. The new system – Ministry Grading System – was far better. The exams had been designed to test the practical use of practical subjects to a better standard, and had ten grading levels, a simple one to ten. Each student took eight subjects, without exception. Their overall WGS score was therefore out of eighty. Most jobs that didn't require AMGS' grades (advanced ministry grading system), required a minimum score of forty. Draco had therefore been fairly satisfied with his score of seventy, far above the national average and putting him in the top five percent of the year, until he had seen Harry's perfect score.

"Oh come on, Draco," Harry began, trying to mix in some tact with his frustration. "We are only ten points apart, and we both got a ten in charms."

"We didn't all get a ten in everything though," Blaise pointed out. "Not that I approve of his bitterness, obviously."

"I am not bitter!" Draco bit back, defensively. He really hadn't been in a good mood lately.

"You did better than I did." Blaise pointed out. "I only got sixty-eight."

"In fairness though, mate," said Dean, who was warming his hands on the fire. "You did decide to take fucking divination."

Blaise' expression darkened. Even in the new regime, it was difficult to find a decent divination teacher. Most of the people that claimed to be seers were frauds, demented, or both.

"The bastard gave me a five," muttered Blaise. "A five!"

"Well, you did make up the entire dream interpretation section," reasoned Theo.

"Of course I did!" came Blaise, angrily. "Everyone did! There aren't any seers left in this day and age. The whole art is a joke."

"Then why did you take it?" asked Draco.

"Well, I thought it'd be an easy grade. I didn't know how up his own arse Professor Linthwing was."

Harry, from his place on the floor, interrupted. "I don't know if we can definitely say that there are no seers left, you know. I bet there's some outside of Britain; there's no way the whole branch has gone extinct."

"It's possible," argued Blaise. "It wouldn't be the first magical art to disappear. Just look at necromancy."

Everyone nodded, although Draco looked a little pale. Harry had a feeling his Father might have told him something to the contrary, but resolved to question him later in private.

"Yes, but look at say… parseltongue. Everyone believed that to be extinct until Lord Voldemort was a teenager, and that turned out not to be true." Harry said, exchanging knowing looks with Blaise and Draco. He liked Dean and Theo, but not enough to trust them with a secret as strange as that.

"I suppose," conceded Dean. "What was it like to meet him, by the way? It was about a year ago, wasn't it?"

Harry sighed. "You're worse than the women from Witch Weekly."

"Oh come on. You never talked to anyone about it. Was it really that traumatising?" asked Theo.

Harry had actually spoken about it in detail with Hermione, Draco and Blaise. It just wasn't something he spoke about in public. Eyeing Dean, he relented;
"It was… Interesting. He's very powerful, and it just sort of comes across in everything he does. He wasn't particularly cruel, just… direct, I suppose. Authoritative."

Dean shook his head in wonderment. "Not that I'm not like… in total awe of him, but I don't think I'd ever want to meet him. I'd feel like I was walking on egg shells, you know?"

"Yeah. I know." Harry smiled weakly.

"Is this moon going to start turning red soon or what?" complained Draco, "Even I can feel the chill now."

Harry rolled his eyes, and stood up. With a glance up at the moon, he imagined it might take some time, and he really wanted the boys to stay out here long enough to help him with the ritual he was planning. He pulled out his wand, and with a few quick wand movements, the boys were sitting in deck chairs around the fire. With another wand movement, the area around the fire was sealed in like a bubble, trapping the heat. There was a general sound of approval, as coats and jumpers were pulled off and the boys relaxed.

"I'll take that as a 'not anytime soon'" said Draco.

"Looks like we need to entertain ourselves. Anybody got fire whisky?" asked Dean, looking hopeful.

"No," said Harry. "I'm afraid I need you all sober for the ritual."

"Oh," Dean seemed disappointed. "Well I guess we'll just have to talk then. Anyone got their eye on someone?"

There was a general groan. "You're such a teenage girl sometimes, Dean," said Blaise.

"That is both misogynistic and inaccurate," laughed Harry. "He's actually some sort of toddler of unidentifiable gender."

"It's going well with me and Daphne," interjected Blaise. "The wedding is set for summer after next, as soon as we leave Hogwarts."

"Are you excited? I mean, you are a bit young mate," argued Dean.

"She's beautiful and intelligent," responded Blaise, and then a small, gentle smile crept in his face. "And I love her wit."

Harry felt warm inside, seeing his friend light up at the mention of his future bride. Blaise could be stoic, but he was actually rather affectionate with the people he let into his life. Daphne had obviously joined that small circle.

"What about you, Harry? Any girls?" Harry stiffened a little. He'd never been a particularly good liar. Deception wasn't his game, which was why he wasn't a Slytherin.

"No," he replied. That wasn't, after all, technically a lie. "No girls."

A flash of red hair – fire red, not ginger – and bright, warm brown eyes filled his mind, unbidden. His filthy secret, who he tried his best to keep out of his mind whenever he was in the wizarding world.

"Oh come now," said Draco, who never liked to be kept out of the loop that was Harry's inner most thoughts. "You've been sneaking off for hours, several times a week. We know there's someone. Who is she?"

Harry's heart thundered in his chest. He really wasn't a good liar, and it seemed that his friends were aware of his ventures in some form or another. It wasn't like he could tell them that he was sort of, kind of, dating a muggle. A thought struck him then that he could probably mask that secret by admitting a smaller one; he could stick as close as possible to the truth without revealing the secret.

"There is..." he began nervously. "There is somebody."

Draco and Blaise looked surprise. Harry hadn't spoken about his love life with them. Ever. The thing was, Harry kind of wanted to talk about his… lover. He just couldn't be completely open, but that didn't mean he had to lie entirely.

"Who?" demanded Blaise. "Are you seeing somebody?"

Harry nodded.

"Well, who is she?" asked Draco, putting aside his grumpy mood and looking merely curious.

"Well, you see… It's not. Well, it's not a she."

Silence. In the face of dating a muggle, Harry had somehow put aside his worries of what his friends might think of him dating someone of the same sex. He'd never thought of them as homophobic – there were plenty of people in the wizarding world who sought the same sex – but people could be unexpectedly strange when it came to their friends.

"Well..." began Draco. "What's his name, then?" he asked, eagerly.

Harry laughed. It was a laugh of relief, a laugh that had in it's weight the love held for his nearest and dearest.

"Michael. His name is Michael."


A short way away in the forbidden forest, the Dark Lord stood, bathed in moonlight. He felt no chill, despite the absence of a heating charm. He didn't feel the floor beneath his feet, despite the fact that they were bare. He wasn't even aware of the excited youths that gathered less than a mile away; his eyes were closed against the mortal world. Slowly, determinedly, he shed the rest of his robes until he was naked in the night air. The forest was silent, and as still as the water in the small pond before him. His breathing was steady, rhythmic. The spell he was about to use was something that required immense magical strength, flawless self control, and above all, concentration.
He stepped into the pond. The water lapped gently around his ankles, and then his knees. It kissed the pale skin of his thighs and lower back. He didn't pause until he was up to his neck, and that was just to gently chant the ancient words of the ritual that had become so familiar to him over the decades. That done, he submerged his whole body in the water.

Drifting. One never really got used to the weightless, shifting feeling. The feeling of being everything and nothing at once. The awareness of the whole universe, and yet the loss of individual identity. It was like unconsciousness, like death, like an orgasm and casting a spell and the last ember of a dying fire. It was also like none of these things. There was a completeness, and time lost all meaning. Like a drowned man drifting ashore, he eventually regained some awareness. In time – although perhaps it was no time at all - he could remember his own name. Tom Riddle. No, that wasn't right, was it? He had been Tom Riddle. Now he was Voldemort. Facts of his own life trickled back to him, slowly and yet all at once. Thus was the nature of this place; a place that existed without rules, without substance.

"Ah, Tom. It's been far too long, my lovely!"

A female voice that came from everywhere, and then suddenly from just one direction, gave him the last part of his consciousness back. It was probably intentional. After all, the fates didn't like unexpected guests.
He found himself standing in a room that was entirely blue. Well, it was sort of a room, given that it had no walls or floors, but it was somehow still blue. There was a table and chairs and seemingly nothing else in the infinite void. The place changed every time he visited. The last time, it had been a nunnery. The time before that, a medieval castle. This time, it seemed they'd gone for a more simplistic theme. Perhaps they just liked to keep him guessing.

"It is fun," said another female voice. "to keep you on your toes."

At the table, dressed in robes that seemed to be made out of the night sky, were three women. Like their realm, their appearances changed every time he visited. This time, they had chosen to appear as endearing elderly women, with greying hair and wrinkled skin. The last time, they'd been beautiful; fairer than any human. He didn't think they were affected by human notions such as vanity; he imagined they just got bored.

"So what brings you to your favourite wicked sisters, Tommie boy?" said one of the fates, looking disturbing as she wiggled her eyebrows suggestively. Their taunts had been a little more acceptable when they didn't look like Bathalda Bagshot.

"The usual business. My future, obviously."

"Ah, of course. A pity you never make social calls." said another of the three, blowing him a kiss.

He knew better than to approach the table. He knew better than to approach them at all. As much as they might appear harmless – friendly even – these were mythical, terrifying creatures. They supposedly weaved the threads of destiny, although Tom had a theory that they actually just made sure that the threads behaved themselves. They were one of the few things on earth that he wouldn't ever try to have dominion over. Possibly because they were too existential to have any kind of control of anyway; they were as insubstantial as the wind, and never found unless they wanted to be.

"If you would, my ladies, I would like to know if there is anything I can do to ensure the continuance of my reign."

"You know, it's a good job we like you," scolded one of the women. "You know better than to ask for guidance so directly, Tom. There's been enough forces fiddling with your timeline."

"Forces?" he questioned, raising an eyebrow.

"Forces. You couldn't possibly understand it, dearie. You know, all that wibbly wobbly, time wimey stuff," she laughed, and winked as if she'd made a great joke.

"Wrong dimension, love," replied one of the other women, and the first woman stopped her laughing.

"Oh yes."

"What?" asked Tom, as bemused as he always was in this place.

"Nevermind, Tom. The point is, we can't just tell you what to do. It'd break too many rules, you see."

"There are rules?" he asked.

"Oh yes, lots. Can't tell you them, mind. It's against the rules," she grinned.

"Who made the rules?" he asked, puzzled.

The fates frowned, as one. "Now that's a question. Who knows? The rules are the rules, they always were."

"Well what can you tell me?" he demanded, growing irritated.

The fates tsked at him as one.

"Now, now," said the one in the middle. As far as Tom knew, they didn't have names. "Don't be such a grumpy pants."

"I'm a fucking Dark Lord!" he barked in exasperation.

"You're a toddler," said the same woman, narrowing her eyes. "I've watched you come into this world, and I have watched you leave it – over and over and over again, in an infinite number of ways. Watch your tone."

Voldemort bit the inside of his mouth, and once again marvelled at the fates ability to rattle him. Still, it wouldn't do to irk them. When they're pissed of with you, you know it.

The woman to the left sighed, and lifted her arms in a defeated manner.

"Come now, boy. Don't pout. We'll give you a little of the gossip, if it'll make you smile."

Tom raised an eyebrow. He didn't smile, but he managed not to say that out loud.

"Your campaigns are going to go very well, for quite a bit. As you know, your life will be remembered throughout history."

Voldemort nodded. He'd been told this by the fates many times before, but it never hurt to hear it again.

"Ah, but this time, there is something new. Someone new. Threads once broken have realigned"

His head jerked up with an uncharacteristic shock. It wasn't often the fates spoke so directly.
"We're feeling talkative..." whispered the right fate conspiratorially, as she played with a yo-yo.

"Who?"

"You know him. The one with the power to defeat you, Tommie. Born as the seventh month died. You shall mark him as your equal, but he shall have powers that you know not, my dear. Neither of you may live, while the other survives."

Adrenaline pumped through his system. Death. They were talking about death, and someone that was as strong as he; stronger even. Who? He thought on it, and it wasn't long before killing-curse green eyes swam into his mind. The boy. The boy his horcrux had become so very attached to.

"I shall have to kill him," he said, more to himself than the fates. "Destroy him before he's grown."

The fates shook their heads as one, knowing smiles playing across their ancient faces. "No, my dear, I wouldn't do that. I've seen you make that mistake more than a few times"

"I shall not allow a threat to my reign go on," he said, resolved. He'd killed for far, far less.

"Oh, my dear, sweet Riddle," said the centre fate.

Suddenly, the room shifted. The three fates converged into one, and the blue of the room seemed to melt away. He felt as though he were floating again, in a void that was at once without colour, and yet not dark. The faces of the fates were now one, and the face they had chosen was that of his Mother. They had worn the faces of people he'd known before, but never this. Merope Gaunt, reanimated.

"The boy will grow, in many ways," the voice echoed, full of ominous power. "He must be allowed to grow into a man without your influence. He will always be a threat to you, Voldemort. He always has been. The two of you are linked through all of time and space – always – your destinies are forever entwined. Your threads are tangled."

Suddenly, Voldemort couldn't breathe. Images of him, of the boy – a man in most - but they were disjointed. The images were packed with emotions he could no longer feel. He felt winded, he felt angry.

"So long as he lives, Tom, your reign will never be sure. However, if he were to die before the time is right?" the voice seemed to be whispering to him now. "Then you will never have lived at all."

His lungs, that seemed to have been frozen, suddenly regained the ability to breathe. Unfortunately, his first breath in was a mouthful of icy water. Voldemort spluttered and gasped as his head broke the surface of the water, choking in the most undignified way. Damn the fates, and damn their cryptic messages. He knew now that the boy – Harry Potter – was important to his future, and perhaps his past too, and yet he didn't know how. He had to keep the boy alive, and couldn't influence his growth, but he was still a danger to him. It was far too confusing. He had never allowed a threat to him remain breathing, and the feeling was an uncomfortable one. There was also a part of him that doubted the prophecy. The boy he'd met had been impressive, but not on par with him, the Dark Lord. What possible power could the scrawny, scared child he'd met have that he did not?

His thoughts were broken like glass is shattered, by the piercing noise of shouts and screams. Somewhere in the forest, there were people in pain. Who had been foolish enough to venture into this forest on the night of a blood moon? He'd leave the idiots to their punishment, of course. Yet, a vague prickly sensation ran across his skin and made him pause. Slipping back into the concentration that had allowed him to complete the spell, he scoured his mind for an answer. There was a fluttering of panic, scratching at the corners of his subconscious. Terror, even. Pain. He recognised it as the faint echo of what had once been a clear signal; the same signal that had been silenced by his horcrux, years before. Harry Potter. Harry Potter was there, and by the sounds of it, about to die.

The Dark Lord put on his robes, picked up his wand, and disapparrated to the source of the sound.


Harry had come across the ritual in a book that he definitely shouldn't have had, in a place he really shouldn't have been, with the man he really couldn't be dating.

When Harry had first begun his haphazard trips into the muggle world, it had been a huge culture shock. Although he spoke the same language as the muggles, their idioms and usage of said language left him quite in the dark. He'd nearly cursed the first car he saw; saved only at the last moment, by remembering it from one of the muggle magazines in the marauder room. Machines the likes of which he had never seen before were a constant source of awe to him. There were machines that dispensed money, using little plastic tokens. There were machines that allowed people to travel from place to place; cars and trains and buses. They even had a train that was underground. They used machines to speak to each other, writing messages and sending them through the air. He had a hard time believing that there was no magic involved in that. Their clothes were also strange. They wore 'jeans' and 'hoodies' and hats that didn't seem to serve any actual purpose. All in all, although amazing, his first venture had left him wanting to do nothing more than run home.

Determined not to actually run back to safety like a coward, he'd slowly acclimated himself to muggle London. Eventually, he had found the one place where he felt truly comfortable, a muggle library. He'd spent hours in there, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, learning everything he could about muggle culture. His reading was very broad at first, everything from washing machines to feminism to the history of trains; it was all knew to him, it was all fascinating.
After three days of sneaking into the muggle world at every given opportunity, spending hours pouring over the books, he'd looked up to find a man smiling indulgently at him. The man was tall, with red hair and brown eyes and an easy smile; he seemed to work there, given the name of the library was printed on his shirt. It had begun with Michael telling him that he was in fact allowed to take books out of the library, with Harry blushing and stuttering a response, surprised at his own attraction the man. It had continued with coffee – a disgusting muggle drink that Michael had laughed at when he'd visibly cringed when trying – and a movie (in a muggle 'cinema'). It had ended, a few short weeks of dating later, with Harry going back to Michael's house, and finding out that magic was the only thing that muggle men were lacking. They weren't quite boyfriends, and they weren't quite casual; Harry couldn't tell Michael about the magical world, and Michael seemed to have secrets of his own. He was only nineteen and lived alone, and never mentioned family. He couldn't say that he loved the man yet, but the thought of him brought a tingly warmth to Harry, and for now that was enough.

When Michael and he had known the other for about a month, he had let Harry into the back rooms of the library. Harry was pretty sure this had been with the intention for illicit activities – Michael was a bit of an exhibitionist – but of course, he'd just been distracted by the books. Piles and piles of dusty texts that had been pulled from the shelves due to their lack of use or unpopularity. Their disuse gave them a certain mystique, and to Michael's ire, he spent several hours going through the titles and looking for anything new about the muggle world that he hadn't already learned. The purpose of the search meant that when he did finally did find something interesting, it was of a most unexpected nature. For one thing, it definitely wasn't muggle, and for another, it definitely wasn't English. He'd sat on the filthy floor and stared at the book 'Strengthening Rituals' with no listed author, for a good while before Michael had finally noticed and got curious.

"Yeah, that books a weird one. No idea what language it's written in, but I don't reckon it's any. Can't bring myself to throw it away though – it looks too cool." he said, snaking his arms around Harry's waist and resting his head against the back of Harry's neck.

"Yeah, weird. Can I have it?" he asked, bluntly. This book shouldn't be left around muggles, even if they couldn't understand it. Flicking through it, he saw that it contained some very dark, very old magic. The magic was so old that it deserved a k. Magick.

"Why? It's just weird lines and dots? I checked, it isn't in any language," Michael asked, puzzled.

What Michael didn't know was that it was actually written in Parseltongue, which made it extremely rare and extremely valuable. Harry had only seen one other book written in the tongue, and it had been worth several thousand galleons. Not that Harry intended to sell this.

"I dunno. I just like it, and no one is using it," he shrugged.

"Alright, sure. Consider it a gift. Great for me, considering it's free," he laughed and winked.

Harry had shortly after made his excuses to return home. Partly because term had started, and they were bound to start noticing him going missing at Hogwarts, but mostly so he could read his new treasure.

The book contained many rituals. All of them a little dark, but some were downright sinister. He was the best in the school at Dark Arts, and even he felt a little sick holding the tome; 'dark magic reflux' as Professor Crouch jokingly called the side effects of over-exposure to dark items. However, he didn't let that stop him from thoroughly reading every single page. These were rituals that could permanently change the nature of your magical core, and make you stronger. They were exactly what he needed to give him an edge for the IDC. It wasn't as if blood rituals had never been used before, and they certainly weren't against the rules; not in the new world, where talent of any kind was appreciated, and ideas of 'fairness' were a little more ambiguous. The one he had chosen to start with seemed easy enough. It required a blood sacrifice, which Harry thought a deer would do for. The worst that could happen would be that it wouldn't work, so what did he have to lose? Hence the reason for calling his friends into the woods. They knew it was a ritual, and that it had to do with the IDC, but he'd kept all other details private. If successful, the ritual would allow him to use leglimency without the need for direct eye contact and with far greater ease. It seemed simple, and a good shortcut to say it was one of the few arts he struggled with.

So when the blood moon finally began to make it's appearance, Harry arranged his friends into a circle. He had chosen these four because he trusted them, and because they roughly corresponded to the element that they represented. Blaise (appropriately, given his name) represented fire, Draco was water, Dean was Earth and Theo was Air. Old magic often used elementals to channel the sentient magic of each. It was something they wouldn't study until seventh year, and even then as an elective. It was a tricky bit of magic, but he was confident. After instructing the boys to focus entirely on their personal element, he went and fetched the deer he'd tied up for the purposes of sacrifice. It was happily sat by a tree, and Harry almost felt a bit guilty, but he'd selected an old doe with very little natural life span left. It wasn't like he was a vegetarian either. He even answered the same protests to Theo, before silencing him by pointing out he'd been eating venison just last week.

Then he'd cast the circle.

Strangely, the incantations necessary to begin the ritual were Greek. It was also a lengthy thing; it'd taken him several days to memorise the whole piece with the correct pronunciation. As he spoke, the circle became a visible thing – a silver light connecting the five – and through it he could feel his friends. He could sense their lives, to put it simply. It was an odd feeling, as if he wasn't quite alone in his own skull. Brighter and brighter it glower, and when he finished speaking, it was a dazzling thing that illuminated the stunned deer in the centre of the circle. In a swift movement, he stepped forward and slit the animals throat, letting it's life blood drip and soak into the thirsty earth. As it did so, he spoke:

"I offer this life, and in return, beg for transcendence," he said, solemnly and in English.

Now what should have happened next, is that the animal would turn to dust, and the circle would begin to fade as he felt a new power seeping through his skin and into his magical core.
The animal did turn to dust, and the circle did disappear – suddenly, instead of fading – and Harry felt no such power. He sighed, and his friends shrugged apologetically. It obviously hadn't worked. It must have been done incorrectly, or broken at the wrong time, or -

Theodore screamed. Theodore screamed and fell to the ground writhing and coughing.

"It's in me!" he shouted. "It's.. it's in my skin! It's in my skin!"

Draco tried to pull the boy up, to see what was wrong and what was 'in his skin', but before he could, he too fell to the ground. In mere moments, all but Harry were bent double, gasping and moaning and clutching their heads.

"I can't hear! I can't – I can't hear!" screamed Draco.

"Where is he?" asked Blaise, his eyes has turned a misty white. "Where is he?"

"Kill it! Kill it… Kill the thing... in me..." shouted Dean, who was struggling to rise.

Harry was terrified. Desperate and terrified. He rolled Draco, who was face down and gasping in the dirt onto his back. He couldn't see anything wrong, there were no marks, nothing 'in him'. Except… Except there was. When Harry touched the clammy skins of his friends, he could sense something akin to a web. A sticky web made of darkest magic, and Harry knew in his heart that whatever it was, it was killing them. It was draining them away.
He couldn't think straight. He didn't know what to do. He dashed to his bag, that was laying against a tree some feet away and tried to block out the moans of his friends. He pulled out 'Strengthening Rituals' and turned to the page that he'd found the ritual on. There was nothing there, nothing about undoing the incantation once complete. Harry whimpered, desperately afraid for his friends. Fuck, what had he done? Why was this happening?
On a chance, for his mind hadn't really been clear enough to go looking, Harry's eyes skimmed the back page of the book. In small writing, barely legible, it said: "For when you have done the unforgivable. Take heed, there is no going back." Just below it was a spell. A spell with no explanation, or warning. It wasn't as if Harry had any choice however; the screams of his friends were fading, and not in the sense that they were recovering. He had so little time and no options left. He lifted his wand, and cast the spell.

The effect was instantaneous. Four screams became one, and it took him a few moments to process that those screams were his own. Paralysing fear gripped him; pain ripped through his body, and it felt as though his skin was crackling. His magic was pulsing, resisting, but ultimately dimming. He'd taken the magic from them. He had taken their pain. He was glad that he had; rather him than them. Still, he wished more than anything that there was another way. The locket had become icy cold around his neck, and he was dimly aware of his friends shaking him, casting healing charms, even sending a signalling patronous to Hogwarts. He also knew that they would be too late. He was dying. The magic had turned against him, and was destroying him from the inside.
His consciousness began to fade in and out. Draco's distraught face, Blaise holding him to him and begging him not to die. He wished he could say goodbye to Hermione. She was his sister in all but blood. He hoped she'd be okay. He must have said something to that effect, because he was dimly aware of Draco vowing to protect her. He was muttering nonsense and nothings, promising to marry her and bring her under the Malfoy name. Blaise said something about naming his first born Harold, so Harry HAD to stay alive to see that.

And then. Then everything changed. There was a loud popping sound, and Harry vaguely remembered once knowing what made that sound. He'd made it himself. There was a fuzzy figure – it seemed the charm that corrected his vision was breaking – in a black cloak. Harry wasn't in pain any more, he just felt cold and floaty. So he didn't really register when the figure knelt by him, when his body was bathed in brilliant blue light. He didn't register that the calm, authoritative voice that was saving him was speaking Parseltongue. He didn't notice until suddenly he began to feel less like he was dying. He didn't notice until he could once again feel his arms, and his vision cleared, and the memory of the last hour returned.

Yet, he was sure this couldn't be real. Surely he was still in the fever dreams of death. For why had he just been saved by Lord Voldemort? Why were red eyes looking at him with a shadow of what once could have been called fear? This didn't last long, however. Harry quickly regained full consciousness, and the fearful red eyes quickly changed to rage.


"Happiness can be found in the darkest of places, if one only remembers to review COTR."