Recall Those Last Cries
Summary: The Dark Lord Voldemort remembers a life before that meddling old coot interfered.
Notes: This is a short chapter. Most of the chapters will be short.
A snake-like man was sitting behind a desk in a study contained within Malfoy Manor. His name was Lord Voldemort. He was studying through book of Dark Magic and taking notes. Of course, he'd gone so far, but still learns from time to time.
Suddenly, a strange tightness pulled at the back of his mind.
He stopped his ministrations and froze. That tautness was sign of Legilimency.
Silently pulling out his wand, he stood from his chair and cast the spell that revealed anyone nearby. But no one was there. It was just him. Odd...
And then, he was hit with memories he instantaneously recognized as lost ones:
He is human again. With hair, a nose, and healthy skin. He is Tom Riddle. And a warm bundle of love rested in his arms. He looked down to see a silver-and-red eyed baby boy with a tuft of black hair. Bellatrix lays in bed, panting from the childbirth, but smiling nonetheless.
A young Tom Riddle watches his thirteen-month old son playing with a just-a-year-old Draco Malfoy. They play with their enchanted toys and squeal in excitement. Bellatrix sighs lovingly.
He is awoken by an alarm. Someone had broken into the wards of the house that was under the Fidelius. He and his wife, Bellatrix, lunge out their king-sized bed and in a very un-pureblood way, they sprint to the room of their child. Just as the door is slammed open, the telltale CRACK! of someone Apparating signals a deadly turn.
They rush to the crib and find it empty. For the first time in a very long time, Tom Riddle weeps.
Voldemort (Tom?) awakens on the floor. And his attention to his new body is immediate. He is no longer the pale-skinned slit-nostriled monster that many others feared. He is now the handsome Tom Riddle that many others adored.
Black waves of hair adorned his scalp, his skin is a healthy pale color, and he has lips. His hands are no longer clawed and ugly, but dainty, clean, and neat. His fingernails are trimmed perfectly.
Sitting up, his rubs his forehead, trying to cease the migraine pounding inside. He rested his back on the wall of the office and tried to calm down. It was very, very rare he lost his composure.
Lord Voldemort was a mask to hide the broken boy underneath. And that mask no longer existed.
And. He had a son.
He remembered being Oblivated by the meddling old coot Dumbledore but eventually tracking down his son's location. But something had gone wrong and his mind had been hopelessly addled with bloodlust that didn't belong to him. He was puppet. He'd been placed under massive amounts of compulsions and potions and he didn't know if they were gone now.
His son's name was Harrison.
His son's mask was Harry Potter.
Standing unsteadily to his no-longer-clawed bare feet, he raked a hand through his silky hair.
For now, he'd rest. And think.
Then, he'd go to Gringotts.