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: I know it's been forever. I started University and it's been pretty whirl wind for the last few months. To my new readers, thank you. For my old readers, my apologies that these updates have become so unreliable. This fic is not abandoned. It's just taking me longer to update these days. A few things to bear in mind. Firstly, I'm not entirely happy with this chapter, but I've had a long time to think about the general direction of the the story and I think you guys will enjoy it. Secondly, a few people were not happy with the relationship forming between Michael and Harry - all I can say on this is that I know what I'm doing, this is still a Voldy/Harry fic, and that you cannot honestly expect someone to have only one relationship in their whole lives. Lastly, as much as I've not been able to update, please know I've read every single review (at least twice!). I always enjoy them immensely and I thank everyone that took the time to do so. I'll try to update as quickly as possible, although I can not as yet guarantee when.

EDIT: MAY 2017


Chapter Thirteen

6th October 1996

Consciousness did not come to Harry quickly that day. Every time he felt some vague awareness of himself, of the wakened world, exhaustion would drag him back to the murky lands of sleep. He didn't know how long he had rested for, and he didn't care. There was a deep, aching weariness to his body that Harry felt too sharply whenever he came near to opening his eyes, and so he dozed on and on. The more he slept, the more vivid and intrusive his dreams became. He dreamt of darkened forests, and of his friends screaming. He dreamt of ancient magicks, and a Dark Lord. He dreamt of a stag and a doe, watching him from an unassailable cliff top; inexplicably, this was the most haunting of the nightmares. He dreamed.

It seemed a lifetime later that voices broke through the haze. His hearing came into focus with jarring agility, and he could feel the bed beneath him. It wasn't his bed, Harry noted in confusion. A moment of listening, breathing, identified it as a bed in the hospital wing. He kept his eyes closed as he tried to remember the events that had lead him to be there. The voices continued.

"-effective. He shouldn't suffer any permanent damage, but it'll be a while before he's back to his usual self."

Harry recognised the voice, and placed it a moment later as belonging to Professor Crouch. This had to be serious, for his head of house to be at his bedside.

"The foolish little twit," said another voice, higher. Bellatrix, Harry realised. "I thought we'd taught him better than to play around with magic beyond his comprehension."

Shifting. They were sitting down, Harry imagined. He stayed very still, curious to hear more of their conversation. He had mastered the art of feigning sleep, long ago in Malfoy Orphanage.

"He did very well, all things considered," continued Crouch. "To get that ritual to activate at all? It's a serious feat of magic. Complex magic."

"The fact the boy is powerful has never been in doubt, Barty," said Bellatrix, scoffing. "Or clever enough. It's his lack of common sense that is concerning."

"Well, it's not like we've never played around with dark magic, Bella," reasoned Crouch, obviously trying to defend him.

"We were older. And more prepared. And more careful," Bellatrix's voice was hard, an angry edge to it now. "Harry is still just a boy, no matter his skill. A foolish boy making foolish mistakes."

"I wonder what this foolish mistake will cost him," responded Crouch, thoughtfully. Sadly.

There was a quiet moment, and Harry wondered if they'd noticed his wakefulness. They seemed not to have, however, as they continued a moment later.
"The Dark Lord was furious," Crouch stated, worry evident. "I've not seen him that angry in a long time."

"Well, we nearly lost a handful of decent wizards in the forest that night. We were very close to losing the most powerful young wizard currently at Hogwarts, too."

"It still seemed an extreme response. Do you think that's the only reason for his ire?"

"I don't see why there would be another," said Bellatrix, admonishingly. She seemed unusually sane today. "Do you?"

No answer. Harry assumed Crouch had shaken his head, for the conversation lulled there. He waited a few moments, ensuring there was nothing else to hear, and then made a show of opening his eyes slowly and sitting up.

"Mr Potter," came the derisive voice of Bellatrix. "Glad to see you've finally chosen to join us in the land of the living."

"Harry? How are you feeling?" asked Crouch, more gently.

"I'm..." he didn't know how to answer that question. He expected to feel pain, or aching. The events of the forest had come flooding back to him during his eavesdropping, and he knew just how close he had been to his death. He expected some lingering effects, but there was nothing really. "… thirsty."

Crouch smiled grimly, and conjured a glass of water that Harry accepted gratefully. Taking in his surroundings, he noted that the hospital wing was empty but for him, and it was sometime around midday.
"How long did I sleep for?" he asked, confused by the hour.

"Just under two days," responded Crouch. Harry blanched.

"Two days?!" he shook his head, perturbed. A lot could have happened in two days, in the aftermath of that ritual. Even if it hadn't, it took him two days closer to the preliminary rounds of the IDC. Bellatrix was still sat down, but was staring at him intensely. She shook her head, clearly irritated.

"Those are the consequences of nearly killing yourself, Potter. You should be grateful your 'rest' wasn't of a more permanent kind," she said, acidly.

"Are they alright?" he demanded, not taking his eyes from Bella. "Draco and Blaise? The others?"

"They're fine, Harry," responded Crouch, evenly. "They were in the hospital wing for a night, but they're otherwise recovered. You were exposed to the effects of dark magic for longer, and with far greater intensity."

"Oh," he nodded, soothed. Or at least, soothed until his next thought occurred to him. "The Dark Lord? He was there, I think. I'm sure he was there."

Bellatrix, eyes hard, nodded. "He will speak to you tonight, provided you're strong enough to leave your bed by then."

Harry almost said something. He almost opened his mouth to express his shock, or his fear, at the prospect of meeting Voldemort once again – but then he didn't. He nodded solemnly. "I feel fine," he said, his voice even. "Of course, I expect to answer to our Lord for my stupidity in this matter."

Bellatrix's expression held, and then softened. If Harry didn't know better, he'd almost think she cared for him, in her own, mad way. "If only you'd shown such maturity two days ago." With that, she stood. Professor Crouch followed her lead, giving Harry a last, lingering look.

"You're my favourite student, you know," he remarked, earnestly. "Try not to get yourself killed, tinkering with things better left alone."

Bellatrix glanced back at Crouch, from where she had been on her way to the door. "Honestly, Barty. You're beginning to sound like bloody Dumbeldore," she rolled her eyes, and laughed. "I'll let your friends know you're awake, Potter. I know my Hermione is just dying to hex you into another coma."

And with that last worrying statement, the two teachers swept out of the room, wry smiles on their lips as they did.


Harry didn't have to wait long for the arrival of his friends. Just twenty minutes later, Hermione, Draco and Blaise arrived; their expressions a sight to behold. Harry was just glad he'd had the foresight to get dressed, and ready to go. It would have been unnerving to face them in only his bedclothes.

"Harry James Potter," began Hermione, her eyes a furious storm. "How could you be so bloody idiotic? Do you have any idea-"

"Hermione," he interrupted, nervously. Dark forces were nothing compared to this witch when she was angry. "Would you mind if we had this discussion outside? I've been in bed for far too long, and it looks like a nice day." Hermione opened her mouth to argue, then shut it, before gesturing at the door with no small amount of aggression. Ducking his head, he lead the way out of the hospital wing and into the corridors, until they were safely in a deserted courtyard behind the castle. He took a seat on a nearby stone-bench. The three of them remained standing. "You were saying?" he gestured.

"I don't understand why you would do something so… so..." she seemed to be at a loss for words, gesticulating wildly.

"Reckless," finished Blaise, eyes hard.

"That's one word for it," murmured Draco.

Harry bowed his head, accepting the criticism. If anything, he deserved worse. "You're right, all of you," he looked first at Draco and then at Blaise. "I put your lives in danger for my own gain. I didn't know it would be so dangerous, of course, but that's no excuse. My reckless, idiotic, foolhardy attempt at a ritual I knew little about almost cost you both your lives. For that, I am truly, deeply sorry. I don't expect your forgiveness."
As he said these words, he realised just how true they were. He had almost killed some of his closest friends, and he doubted they could forgive him that. They had trusted him, almost blindly, and that trust had turned out to be most unfounded. The shame he felt was all consuming at this.

Blaise raised an eyebrow, Hermione scoffed, but it was Draco who's outburst surprised Harry the most.
"Killed us? Almost killed us? Harry, what about yourself?" Draco was very nearly shouting, and it was all Harry could do to stare up at him, bewildered. Draco looked like he might curse him. "I know you would never done that ritual if you had known it could backfire on us. Accidents happen with magic, and you couldn't have known it would do that, stupid as it might be to attempt it. But you did know how dangerous it could be for you, didn't you?"

Harry just blinked up at them, wondering how they could be so angry at him for self-endangerment when he had almost lead them to their deaths.
"The Dark Lord spoke to us, after you passed out in the clearing," said a marginally calmer Blaise. "Read a little from that book, though I think it was more to himself than to us. It said that the ritual was incredibly dangerous to the recipient. That it could cause permanent, devestating damage in some cases."

"It said 'in rare cases'" Harry responded, feebly.

The next moment was a blur for Harry, as Blaise picked him up by his collar and slammed him against the wall behind the bench. He'd never noticed exactly how much taller Blaise had gotten over the last year, or how much muscle was beneath his lithe figure, until he had experienced his head smacking heavily against the stone. Hermione was trying to pull him away, to no avail. Blaise was positively snarling.

"If you don't care about your life, Harry, fine. But you could at least show some modicum of respect for the people that do. You always have to be the fearless fucking hero, and you don't think twice about how it could affect us." With that, Blaise released him and immediately turned to walk away. Draco followed him, sneering in a way Harry had never been on the receiving end of from him.

Hermione lingered for a moment more, and all Harry wanted was to go somewhere and be left alone to rot in his own self-hatred. He was not generally an angsty teen, but the weight of Blaise's words was making his throat burn and his eyes itch.

"He's right, you know," whispered Hermione, her eyes red around the edges in a way that made his stomach wrench. "You've always been throwing yourself into the way of danger, risking your life for anything and everything. And worse lately. Entering that competition, even though you're far too young. This. You've been disappearing a lot lately too, and I know you're hiding something big from us all." She sighed, shaking her head. "We love you, Harry. But sometimes, you're such a selfish fool."

Then she left him too, and Harry was left feeling more hollow than he could ever recalling feeling before.


So much so was Harry's sorrow, that he could not summon the usual fear that went along with meeting the Dark Lord. In the hours before, he killed time out of impatience, rather than anxiety. He avoided Gryffindor tower, wanting to avoid Blaise until after he'd been dealt with by Voldemort. He also avoided the Great Hall and the Kitchens, not daring to eat anything in case he was subject to the cruciatus, or some other punishment. Instead, he ghosted about the castle, keeping his eyes down and his posture uninviting. He visited Ember, who had noticed his absense and was not pleased by it. Luckily, the castle was filled with enough mice for her to please herself, but she still seemed very shaken. On questioning, she said something about a snake king, that it was stirring in the bowels of the castle. He hadn't been able to get a coherent explanation out of her though, and he wondered if it were possible for a snake to have nightmares. He'd left her with promises of rodent treats and time spent nested in his bed, which seemed to placate her.

By the time he wandered back up to the hospital wing, he found Professor Snape (of all people) waiting for him.
"The Dark Lord requires your presence...Immediately," sneered Snape. They had never been fond of each other, although Harry felt he had softened towards him as he got older. This softening was not in evidence today, however, and he wondered how many more people were angry with him today.

Harry nodded, following Snape from the room and falling into step behind him. It was several minutes before he realised their route was to the Headmistresses office, and he supposed that made sense. He still couldn't muster the appropriate trepidation. Of course the Dark Lord could hurt him, but he may have just lost his closest friends, and physical pain seemed so insignificant in comparison. They climbed the set of spiral stairs up to the office, and Snape knocked once and waited. An involuntary shiver went down Harry's spine at the cold, authoritative male voice that summoned them inside. Perhaps he was able to feel fear, even in this sombre state.

Bellatrix was not present in her office when Harry and the Professor entered. In her place, alone in the room, was Voldemort. The Dark Lord was stood at the centre of the room, his expression impassive. Harry found himself studying every feature of the man; his light brown hair, so much more controlled than his own; his bright blue eyes, icy as ever. Today, he looked every inch a Dark Lord, in his black robes and deep green cloak. His snake, Nagini, was a few meters away, sleeping by the window. He had the surprising and ridiculous thought that he should have brought Ember, who might like another snake for company. The ridiculous thought soon left his mind, however, when Voldemort looked at him. No matter how many times he met the wizard, he had the unnerving ability to make his whole body go hot and cold, all at once.

He did nothing but make impassive eye contact with Harry, until Harry finally looked away, directing his gaze instead at the floor. He glanced up when a chair was summoned, and swallowed heavily as Voldemort gestured for him to take a seat.

Harry took a deep, steadying breath once seated, daring himself to look back at the man that was now stood above him. The difference could have only been a few feet, but he seemed to tower over Harry, making him feel young and smaller. Harry tried to envision a time when he wouldn't feel like falling to his knees before this man, and couldn't manage it. Whether it was conditioning, cowardice, or an innate sense of self-preservation – he wasn't sure.

"Harry Potter. Once again, you have managed to draw my attention," came the silky, yet malevolent tone. It was clear from his tenor that he did not see this attention as positive.

"Yes, my Lord," Harry said, submissively. He didn't take his eyes from the floor, fearing that a false move might cause Voldemort to strike out at him. A scoff, however, made him glance up.

"Again and again, you disappoint me. I find you performing a ritual steeped in dark magic, a ritual that involves blood sacrifice and a complex understanding of unbound magical principles. I find you attempting what lesser wizards couldn't fathom, couldn't even imagine – and yet – summoned before me, you behave like a thrashed schoolboy in detention," Voldemort's words rang of disdain, as if Harry's obsequiousness had literally disgusted him. Bewildered and irritated, Harry didn't know how to respond.

"I am a schoolboy, my Lord. I feel thrashed after that ritual went awry. If Bellatrix's ire is anything to go by, I very well could be in detention. I don't know how you want me to behave, but I'm just trying to avoid a green curse and a shallow grave." Harry meant for these words to sound strong, but his voice was too shaky to manage it. Rather, he came across bewildered.

Voldemort held his gaze levelly, and it took Harry a moment to realise that he was successfully making prolonged eye contact. Salazar, how did that man make blue eyes look like flames? So beautiful and deadly. Harry froze again. Had he really just thought of the leader of the wizarding world as beautiful? He was going mad. Voldemort was only beautiful in the way a storm could be, or a raging sea, or a predator ready to strike. He thanked whatever Gods there may be that the man before him couldn't read his mind, and wondered again at the uniqueness of that.

"You're obviously not too fond of self-preservation, boy," drawled Voldemort, obviously nonplussed about his outburst. "You did almost get yourself killed."

"I didn't think it would kill me," Harry responded, sulkily. He dropped his eyes as he said this, surely very interested in his own shoes.

"You knew it may kill you," the Dark Lord pointed out, with a neutrality that almost concealed his curiosity.

"I didn't think it likely. The research I'd done suggested the chance of death was inversely proportional to magical ability," he said to Voldemort's shoes.
Without warning, his chin was gripped firmly between the thumb and forefinger of Voldemort's hand; his face forced up to meet Voldemort's eyes. The locket suddenly felt warmer against his skin, tingly even.

"And you are so very sure of your abilities, child? Sure enough to risk your life, to risk your friends lives?"

Harry knew immediately that he'd switched to parseltongue, and did the same. He supposed bonding with Ember had done the trick quite well. "I had no intention in risking their lives!" Harry began, losing his temper. "I would not pay that kind of price for power."

Voldemort narrowed his eyes, and then made a disgusted sound and switched back to English. "You know, I actually believe that. How very disappointing."

Drawing away from him, the Dark Lord gestured to Snape, who was still stood behind Harry. He came into view, throwing Harry a vaguely nervous glance that he found perplexing. It took him a moment to realise Snape hadn't known that Harry was a parseltongue, and given it was reputed to be a skill belonging only to Voldemort, he must have found it unnerving. He couldn't help but be a little pleased, given that he was amongst Harry's least favourite Professors.

"Severus," Voldemort began, his tone suddenly businesslike. "Mr. Potter came into possession of a most interesting book. Whilst I don't favour using dark magic irresponsibly, I did not bring him here merely to scold him." The Dark Lord looked over Harry once more, solemn and considering. "I searched the world for that book, and I would be most interested to find how it came into his care. I am unable to leglimens him, and so you will find this information for me."

Severus baulked. "My Lord, surely if someone of your superior skills cannot-"

"The block has nothing to do with the boy's occlumency skills, Severus. You will ask no further questions." The Dark Lord's tone left no room for argument, and his cold authority was not something any sane wizard would challenge.

Harry jolted. "You're going to have him enter my mind?"

"Yes," the Dark Lord responded, simply.

"Why not just ask me?" he demanded, having the sense to switch languages before challenging him. Voldemort raised an eyebrow, and his lips curved with wry amusement.

"You expect me to believe that you would tell the truth?"

"I wouldn't lie to you, my Lord," Harry lied. Of course he would lie in this situation, but he was staring at a noose. It was expressly forbidden to enter the muggle world, but a relationship with a muggle was unthinkable. He thought of Michael, and wondered how this could end for him.

"Liar," Voldemort responded in English, his eyes narrowing, "Severus?"

Harry felt his skin prickle with the icy heat of impending terror. His mind and heart were racing with roughly equal speed. He hadn't even considered that the Dark Lord would question where the book had come from. He could be – probably would be – executed for this. Michael might even die for it, knowing the distaste of ordinary wizards for muggle kind. Sleeping with a muggle was so deeply perverse in the eyes of the public, that even if he didn't die, he'd be ruined.

"No," Harry began, his eyes wide with terror. "Please, my Lord. I'll… I'll never try a ritual like that again. I'll never step out of line again, just please, don't."

He had begun to stand without noticing it, his eyes flicking to the door in an automatic flight response. Voldemort rolled his eyes, and with a flick of his wrist, Harry found himself bound to the chair and unable to reach his wand or flee.

Snape, who had merely watched this display dispassionately, stood before him. "Don't fight it, Potter, or this will only be worse for you."

Harry looked up, hoping to plead with Snape, only to feel as if he had been dipped into warm water.

Draco and Blaise laughing in second year, trying some sweets that made their skin turn varying neon shades. He was turning purple.

Shuffling through his mind. A strange sensation, like files being flicked through hurriedly.

Fourth year. He was winning at Quidditch. He loved this game. Slytherin was ninety points behind, and the wind was in his hair. He was soaring. Draco's Father is in the crowd. Draco looks like he's giving up. This is the first match his Father has been to. He saw the snitch. He pretended not to. Slytherin won.

More shuffling, moments of his life passing by quicker than he could hold onto. He was feeling sea-sick.

On his knees at the Dark Lord's feet at Malfoy Manor. He's beautiful. He's terrifying. How did he become so powerful? Is he even human? I want to be like him. Except I don't. I don't want to be lonely. I wonder if he gets lonely? I wonder if he feels emotions like other people? The curve of his mouth is so perfect. I want him to bite me. He looks like he bites.

A pause. More memories, and then slowing. Slowing down and watching.

He was in Michael's arms. They'd just had sex on the futon, and he'd turned on the bright screen thing that muggles called a television. It was interesting. He was going to stay over tonight. It wasn't like anyone would notice his absence from the castle if he got back for breakfast. He wanted to read the book though, he'd not had a chance to yet…

The rest of the memories blurred by in a moment, like once they'd been located, it was simple to just pull out the correct strand and take the information required quicker than they actually played out.

Harry came back to his body, finding himself still tied to the chair and sweating. It felt like both hours and mere moments had passed, which was disorientating in itself. Neither the Dark Lord, nor Snape was looking at him. It took Harry a while to conclude that Voldemort was taking the memories from Snape, as simply as Snape had taken them from Harry. Dread curled in his stomach; a tight, sour knot that seemed to cripple his ability to breathe properly or think logically. These could be his final moments.

It didn't take nearly long enough for Voldemort to break off contact with Snape. Harry kept his eyes resolutely closed and his head bowed. His hope being that, if he were to look submissive enough, the Dark Lord would find him too lowly to bother murdering. Voldemort's voice was surprisingly calm when he spoke next, though this wasn't to him. He dismissed Snape, warning him to not speak of what had happened tonight. Snape gave a perfunctory farewell and Harry heard the door close as he left.

"Open your eyes, boy," Voldemort ordered, impatiently.

He did so, but really wished he didn't have to. He was surprised to see the Dark Lord appearing not angry, but rather considering.

"You found the book in the muggle world."

It was not a question, but Harry answered it anyway. "Yes, my Lord."

It was not entirely unexpected when a sharp slap snapped his face around, leaving his cheek stinging. What was unexpected, was that the Dark Lord had not used a spell - had not even hit him hard enough to do more than make his face sting. It was almost embarrassing.

"In a muggle library. How very bizarre," Voldemort began to pace around him, behaving as though he hadn't just struck him, and he was suddenly more aware of the rope holding him to the chair.

"Yes… I.. I thought it best to remove it from there, my Lord."

"Indeed. Give much consideration to the secrecy of our world, child?"

Harry swallowed heavily, unsure of how to respond. "I… My Lord, I'm sorry-"

"You're sorry that I caught you," chided the Dark Lord. "You are not sorry that you did it. Your memories reveal quite a disturbing lack of distaste for muggle kind."

"They're… they're not so unlike us, my Lord."

It was a stupid thing to say, and he knew it before he'd even opened his mouth. He knew it again when the dark lord slapped him a second time, with an almost lazy gesture. He felt like a dog being hit with a newspaper, and he growled low in his throat. What more could he do, though? He had to come up with some sort of defence, for flagrantly disregarding the laws of the land. Laws made by the very intimidating wizard who currently had him bound to a chair.

"They are," Voldemort responded, his voice still calm, but firm, almost fierce. "They are so very different to us, boy, in ways you cannot yet begin to imagine."

Harry nodded, conceding the argument he knew it would not do to win.

"You nod, but you do not agree with me. You think your muggle lover proves that they are not the monsters you were told about, and in a way, you are right." Harry looked up, surprised by the admission. "In truth, they are far worse than the fairy tale villains your carers told you about from the crib," his voice was filled with a thinly veiled hatred. He leaned back again Bellatrix's desk, considering him. "You are not an ordinary young man, Harry Potter."

"I am, My Lord, I-"

"Shut up, and do not presume to argue with me," his voice was firm, and his blue eyes hard. "You are special, for reasons I do not care to explain. And you should thank the stars that you are, for anyone else who had committed the crimes you have would not find me to be so merciful."

Mercy? Harry breathed an internal sigh of relief. It would seem that he would not die today, although he couldn't think why.

"I can see you have an enquiring mind. This is something I value," he flicked his wrists as he said this, banishing the ropes around him. "Incredibly useful in a follower, but devastating in an enemy. You do not want to be my enemy, do you, Harry?"

"No, my Lord," he agreed instantly.

"When the international duelling competition is over, I will make sure you understand exactly why we do not mix with muggle kind. Until then, you will not set foot in the muggle world. Do you understand?"

"Yes, my Lord."

"Disobey me now, and I will make sure that the temptation to do so is removed. Do you understand?"

Harry nodded numbly, the threat apparent. If he were to try to see Michael again, then Michael would pay the price for his foolishness. He couldn't take that kind of risk.

"I will also explain to you exactly how you went wrong with that ritual. It was a rather pathetic attempt, given you had more than enough capability to complete it. I can only assume your mistake with the sacrifice came from some childish scruple about spilling human blood."

Harry's eyes widened and at once he did understand, at least partially. The problem hadn't been with the ritual in itself, but the sacrifice he had used. Animal blood could not be used for something as dark as that.

"Thank you, my Lord," and he meant it.

"Good. Now get out, and try not to draw my attention again any time soon."

Harry nodded and stood up, thanking the Gods that he didn't seem to be shaking as much as he expected he would be. He couldn't believe he'd made it through this ordeal without even a cruciatus, and wondered again at what the Dark Lord had meant by 'special'. He had almost made it to the door when Voldemort spoke once more.

"Oh, and Harry?" Harry turned back, to the unnerving spectacle of the Dark Lord smirking, his eyes sparkling with mirth.

"Yes, my Lord?"

"Be careful. I do bite."


"Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind; and therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.

Love all, trust a few, do wrong to none.

We are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with a sleep.

Oh and love is also reviewing Fanfiction. That too. Don't forget that part."

- William Shakespeare.