31 October 1981

Godric's Hollow

"Stand aside, Lily." Lord Voldemort aimed his wand at the young scarlet-haired witch before him. Her fingers curled desperately round the top rung of her son's cot, and young Harry screeched in terror behind her. The curtains of the blasted-out window fluttered about her; shards of glass crunched beneath her bare foot as she frantically tried to adjust her stance. She shook her head, tears streaming down her alabaster cheeks in the light of the flickering wall sconces in the nursery.

"P-Please," she mumbled desperately. Then, hanging her head, her red locks messily falling in front of her, she choked out in a sob, "Oh, James… Oh, not Harry. Not Harry. Please."

"I warned you, woman. You are in my way. I've no patience for this. Avada Kedavra!" In the moment just before Voldemort's crackling Killing Curse rippled forth in its blaze of green light, Lily Potter whirled round and desperately reached for her young son, Harry. But she couldn't reach him, and the death from Voldemort's wand socked into her back. She instantly went stock still, her limbs jutting out awkwardly for a half second before she slumped in limp unresponsiveness. Her youthful body lay in a heap on the floor before Harry's cot as the boy wailed, his little fists flexing and clenching in anxiety as he tossed his head back and fell onto his bottom.

Voldemort stalked a few steps toward the cot, knowing James Potter was dead on the staircase, listening to the sound of Harry's screams mingling with the wind and cracks of thunder from outside. On this Halloween night, he thought, it would all end. The vicious war that had claimed so many of his Death Eaters, that had imperiled his movement, that had made him doubt himself so many times, would finally come to a close. The prophecy that had been delivered to him in fits and starts would be seen to its conclusion. Everything was coming to a head right this moment. His hand trembled just a bit around the handle of his bony yew wand, and he sniffled just a bit as his own dragonhide shoes trod over the same shards of glass that had been beneath Lily's feet. He approached Harry's cot and stared at the distraught toddler for a moment, tipping his head to the side and smirking.

"Harry Potter," he said in a low, hissing taunt. He brought up his wand and stroked it, as if it were an extension of his body, and he purred out a low laugh as he said, "It will be my honour to kill you now and end all of this terrible nonsense."

The child's screaming slowly stopped then, and suddenly Voldemort found himself in a much quieter nursery, which was a bit unnerving. The storm outside seemed to have quieted, too. Even the curtains were blowing less aggressively now. Harry Potter was staring up at Voldemort with curiosity in his wide, emerald eyes as his mother Lily lay in still, silent death on the floor, surrounded by similarly unspeaking toys and trinkets. Harry's tear-streaked face was almost peaceful then, his hair black like James', his eyes his mother's. Voldemort felt ill, not because he was about to kill, but because he had an acute sense of dread. He shoved away the fear, as he had so often done in his life, and filled himself with a renewed sense of purpose. It all ended here. It all ended now. He aimed his wand at Harry Potter and tipped his chin up imperiously as he cast his most beloved curse.

"Avada Kedavra!"

Then all was black, and very cold, and so still and empty that Voldemort was very, very certain he was dead. But that was impossible, wasn't it? He couldn't be dead. He had Horcruxes. What was this vast, empty nothingness he was experiencing, this horrific lack of being? What was this frigid vacuum, this lack of air, this inability to fill his lungs? What was this velveteen darkness, so deep that his eyes could seek out neither star nor shadow? Why was there a hollow hole in his chest, a vacant chasm where his heart was meant to be beating? To what unholy black hell had he been catapulted? Into what empty eternity had he been condemned? And why, Voldemort wondered with what threads remained of his consciousness, did it seem neverending? Why did the silent darkness thud in his brain relentlessly, inescapable and heavy despite consisting of nothing at all? He could neither move nor speak; there was nothing to be done. It went on forever or for a moment. He had no idea at all. And then, very suddenly indeed, his eyes sprang open.

Lord Voldemort gasped in air as if he were a newborn taking his first breath. His fingers curled around the sheets at his sides, and he instantly realised precisely where he was. He hadn't been here in years, and yet he knew it at once. Once he'd established his own private headquarters at his manor home outside Danby in North Yorkshire, he'd had no need of these borrowed apartments. Early in his movement, though, he'd been a grateful guest in Malfoy Manor, and he knew the elaborately decorated canopy bed in which he now lay very well indeed. It was an almost gaudy Baroque creation with gilded wood and burgundy satine fabric draped elegantly about the bed, with a matching coverlet that now scratched at Voldemort's skin.

He let his eyes flutter shut and wondered what the blazes he was doing here. He'd been at the Potters' house in Godric's Hollow. He'd been killing Harry Potter. In the instant that he'd cast the Killing Curse on the boy, he'd felt something very strange happen - something he had certainly never experienced before, nor learnt about in his travels on the Continent. It had almost been like his Killing Curse had… rebounded? But that wasn't possible, was it? Such a thing could never be. Even if some bizarre twist of magic such as that occurred, surely Voldemort would escape unscathed, what with his Horcruxes? But, then, Voldemort considered, perhaps this was him escaping unscathed. Perhaps his Killing Curse had indeed bounced back and socked him square in the chest, and had he been a lesser man, a man vulnerable to mortal death, he would have crumpled like a rag the way James and Lily Potter had done. Instead, he'd careened into an odd black darkness for a while and had wound up safely in his old bed at Malfoy Manor.

Yes. Surely, that was what had transpired. He'd been saved by his Horcruxes. His powerful Dark Magic had rescued him. He'd been very intelligent, he thought, to create his Horcruxes and protect himself from death. Whatever had happened when he'd sought to kill Harry Potter would have been the end of a less shrewd and clever wizard, but not Lord Voldemort. He smirked where he lay and then started to pull himself from the bed in which he'd slept for years early in his campaign, when he'd been freshly returned from the Continent and his old friend Abraxas Malfoy had gladly opened up Malfoy Manor as a base.

He realised he was wearing dark grey pyjamas, which seemed a bit odd at first, but Voldemort shrugged off the idea of it and reached for his trusty yew wand, which was lying on the bedside table. He aimed it at his mouth, which he Scoured clean, for he felt rather as though he'd been asleep for a long while. Perhaps he had. Who could say? That darkness had seemed to last an eternity. He Transfigured his pyjamas into a set of neatly tailored dark grey woolen robes, elegant and staid, and Conjured himself some simple black shoes. He made his way into the bathroom adjoining the bedroom, thinking he ought to at least check to see that his hair and whiskers were presentable. When he stepped up to the white pedestal sink, glancing into the mirror above it, he froze, his lips falling open in complete and utter shock. His trembling fingers migrated to his jaw, and his dark eyes blinked several times in wonder.

He was young. Or, at least, significantly younger. He'd been almost fifty-five years of age on the Halloween night when he'd stalked into the Potters' home in Godric's Hollow, intent on destroying Harry Potter. His hair then had been thinning and almost entirely grey, and his hairline had made a steady backward retreat from his forehead. His face had borne the scars of war; he'd had a deep slash from his forehead to his neck, the remnant of a Blasting Curse gone wrong during a battle in Cornwall in 1977. He'd nearly lost an eye that day, and his left eye had been left almost blind and cloudy as a result. His age had shown in dark undereye circles, in wrinkles and sagging skin. He'd grown thin from the stress of war, his sallow skin pulling around the bones of his body.

He looked very different now.

His hair was fuller, black as pitch and straight and thick, naturally parted at the side as though it had been carefully cut that way. His skin was smooth, flushed through with lively pink that also stamped his high, angled cheekbones. His dark eyes sparkled, sharper than ever, and his face was completely unscathed, as though he'd never once seen battle. Voldemort's fingers caressed his jawline, his hairline, the bridge of his nose. He touched at his dark lips and blinked rapidly, feeling his heart hammer inside his chest. He tried desperately to parse out what precisely had happened, to make sense of it all.

His spell had not gone as planned. That much was plainly evident. The Killing Curse he'd cast at Harry Potter had unleashed a series of consequences that Lord Voldemort had never seen coming, and whose realities were still making themselves known. Voldemort had vanished from the house in Godric's Hollow, disappearing into an empty nothing where he'd found himself paralysed and senseless. He still had no idea how long he'd been without his body or faculties. He'd moved through space, it seemed; he'd awakened in pyjamas in his old apartments in Malfoy Manor. And, evidently something had happened to make him appear to be at least a decade younger, perhaps more. Had he travelled through time, as well as space? Was such a thing possible? Terrible things happened to people who meddled with time, though of course Lord Voldemort had hardly done so on purpose.

Suddenly there was the sound of rather insistent knocking, and Voldemort startled. He snatched at his wand from where he'd dropped it into the basin of the sink, and he extended it protectively before him as he stalked carefully from the bathroom. His breath came quick and shallow in his nostrils and his heart absolutely thudded inside the cavity of his chest as he neared the enormous mahogany door that led from the sitting room of his apartment to the manor's corridor. There was more knocking, a bit more insistent now, and Voldemort carefully angled his wand to protect himself as he opened the door just a bit.

Standing before him with a rather mischievous grin was Abraxas Malfoy, looking far more sprightly than the last time Voldemort had seen him. He'd been a year ahead of Tom Riddle at Hogwarts, so he'd been fifty-six when last Voldemort had laid eyes on the wizard. He'd been plump and balding by then, thoroughly worn down by war and having been greviously injured more than once in battle. He'd also fought through a bad bout of Spattergroit in the mid-1970s, at the height of the conflict, that had left him quarantined and bedridden for months and had scarred his skin badly. But now, Abraxas was lean and smiling, his pale face smooth and unmarred by disaster or disease. His silvery hair was neatly pulled back into a queue, but a few strands had escaped and fell around his playful face. He wore brocade robes in a stylish mix of cobalt blue and grey, and he looked for all the world like a merry gentleman without a care in the world.

"Abraxas." Voldemort lowered his wand a little, feeling more uneasy than ever as he realised that not only had he appeared young in the mirror, but so too was Abraxas young. Time travel, then. Accidental time travel, but to be certain, he'd moved. Were there two of him here, he wondered? His mind raced, and he tried to focus, to listen, as Abraxas said jovially,

"Oh, good! You're up and dressed. I was beginning to worry, Tom."

Voldemort felt like he'd been struck by lightning. Tom. He stared at Abraxas as though the other man had three heads. No one but Albus Dumbledore (who used the name like a weapon) had called him Tom to his face since the first months after his return from the Continent, when he'd gratefully accepted the Malfoys' hospitality and had begun networking among his old friends and esteemed members of the Sacred Twenty Eight social circle. He'd had to claw his way to being known as Lord Voldemort, but he'd managed to so more quickly than anticipated. Had he come back as far as that, then? He gulped.

"I, erm… overslept," Voldemort said softly, fingering the handle of his bony wand as his fingers shook. Abraxas just smiled broadly and nodded. He seemed to be reminding Voldemort of something then as he said,

"Cygnus and his girl just got here. You know, all the children got home yesterday. Lucius immediately set about giving poor Tullia all sorts of trouble… a more patient mother, you'll never find, mark me. In any case. You'd said you wanted to meet Cygnus' eldest. The one who's constantly wreaking havoc at Hogwarts. Apparently she managed to catch herself six weeks' detention just before they all got on the Hogwarts Express. Something about humiliating two Gryffindors… I'm sure she'll tell you all about it."

"Bella's here?" Suddenly Voldemort was breathless. His eyes seared like fire. His stomach felt cold. He tried to steady himself, but he almost dropped his wand. Abraxas gave him a very odd look indeed, tipping his head and studying him, and Voldemort knew he was acting very strangely. He couldn't help himself. The knowledge that she was here, that she was right downstairs, that she was young, was almost too much to bear.

For thirteen years of his life, she had tormented him.

He'd met her when she'd been a vexatious Slytherin who gave her parents headaches and cost her Housemates endless points for her troublesome behaviour. She'd been known then for exacting revenge on rival students, for masterful work in the classroom that frustrated the Gryffindors, and for her stubborn proclivity to be found buried in a book about the Dark Arts on Quidditch days. She'd been dating Rodolphus Lestrange at the time, a burly bully who had cotton between his ears and was better suited for crushing bones than for any intellectual pursuits. Voldemort had wondered even then what Bellatrix had seen in Rodolphus, and he'd even wondered in Rodolphus knew what he'd possessed in Bellatrix. She'd been unfathomably beautiful, with her springs of jet black curls and her eerie white skin, her doe eyes the colour of chestnuts and her pouting dark lips. She'd had a tiny little body, a wispy little frame and a very short stature, but she carried herself like a giant from a young age. She'd been confident, even cocky, always bearing a crooked smirk and a raised brow. Voldemort had always wondered if big, dumb Rodolphus had had any clue what sort of witch Bellatrix Black was.

But the two of them had married anyway, almost straight away out of Hogwarts, and Voldemort had felt a twinge of regret about that. He'd thought at the time that if he'd been a bit quicker about it, he might have snatched Bellatrix up for himself. After all, she'd been a member of the prestigious House of Black, and he'd been the ascending Dark Lord. It would have been a perfect political move to take her as his own, especially given her undying loyalty for him and her eagerness to advance his cause. Alas, she'd spoken her vows to Rodolphus and kissed him to seal their union in front of a ballroom full of guests, and Voldemort had had to look on and pretend he didn't care.

As the years passed, Bellatrix had fought valiantly for Voldemort, and she cemented herself as his most vicious and able soldier. He had always been able to rely upon her to torture captured enemies, to murder without hesitation, to take out three members of the Order of the Phoenix on her own whilst the others struggled in their own duels. She had always been unflappable, bloodthirsty, reveling in the carnage, dancing to the drumbeat of war, singing along to the keens of the mourning in glee, forged in the crucible of killing into Voldemort's most treasured weapon. He'd held her in his favour as his most beloved Death Eater by far, and she'd treated him like a god. She'd always bowed her head and skittered about him, anxious to please him, wanting nothing more than to earn his praise.

Voldemort had always felt like he waas seconds away from snapping with her, like all it would take was a momentary loss of his prized self-control and he'd be grabbing her wrist in the middle of a battle, drawing her up against him and crushing her mouth with a kiss. It had been a fantasy for years. He'd dreamed up a hundred ways of doing it. Rain pounding around them, spells flying about them, whilst he kissed her with his wand pressed against her cheek. Him dismissing everyone but her from a meeting, holding her back and dragging his fingertips up her ribcage, whispering against her lips that he'd wanted this for years and then devouring her. Pushing her up against the wall in his office after a solid session of torturing some Mudblood, driving her aggressively against the wood paneling as he mumbled against her neck about the good work she did for him. She'd moan and whisper, Master.

For over a decade throughout her marriage, and then throughout the war, such fantasies had sustained and utterly tortured Voldemort. He never did get the chance to kiss her, to touch her. Instead he'd treated her with cold indifference, imperiously turning his nose up at her and occasionally tossing her a compliment or perhaps thanking her for a job well done. She'd nearly faint at that, at the mere hint that he thought fondly of her.

If she'd only known.

"Bellatrix Black is here, yes. With Cygnus. They're in the dining room." Abraxas Malfoy's voice jarred Voldemort out of his woolgathering, and he snapped to rights as he soaked in the youth and vigour of the friend before him. He nodded at Abraxas and forced his lips to curl up into a little smile.

"Right. Thank you."

Abraxas bowed his head respectfully and walked away with a bit of a bounce in his step. Voldemort's breath shook horrendously in his nostrils as he contemplated something.

He could try again.

He had knowledge now that he'd not possessed when he'd been younger and less practised with statesmanship and with war. He hadn't had the prophecy. There were battles they'd lost during the war whose outcomes could be changed with the knowledge he now possessed. If certain people were preemptively eliminated, the course of events would certainly change. He'd never met Bellatrix before. If he said certain things to her now, then perhaps…

Voldemort shut his eyes where he stood in the doorway.

He had a second chance now, he thought, and he was absolutely not going to waste it.