Dear Readers, I'm so sorry, but TVoV is coming to an end. The last three chapters, including this one, won't be extremely long (about 10k each), but will come relatively soon. It's too simple to complicate with too many words. If this were a book, you would feel the remaining pages lessening, leaf by leaf, headed for a conclusion. The weight of old chapters would strain your hands, pulling you on, a reminder of this 600,000-word adventure.

I want to dedicate this chapter to all of my readers, reviewers, & all of those who favourited TVoV, guiding me on as a young writer these past four years. x

-Angstier


79 – Eighty-One

He was unable to think, unable to move. It was impossible, he told himself. Harry had spoken to him mere minutes ago, had shuddered at his touch. Tom became very still, kneeling where they had fallen together, clutching Harry in his arms. It was impossible, he told himself again, but all was still. Harry wasn't breathing anymore. His body was still warm. It had been minutes, hours – but still, he was warm. Tom was too scared to move. He didn't want to face the consequences of his anger.

The room was deathly quiet. Tom had enchanted it to be so, but he regretted it in that moment and regretted the pulse that beat in his chest, on his parted lips, up against Harry's ear. His own breath had been the last sound, his terrified heartbeat. He was sure Harry had heard it and had noticed his terror. What use was that information, Tom wondered? What use were the thoughts in Harry's mind, now that his life had run out? Time's tides were washing his memories away slowly. Harry's grip had loosened on Tom's hand, but still he held it securely.

It took a long time for Tom to move. When the decision was made, it was not hasty, but urged him slowly instead, pulling him away like hands placed on his shoulders. He didn't, at first, want to look at Harry. The idea terrified him. What he saw upon sitting up terrified him even more.

Harry's eyes were open. They shone an emerald green, glistening in the light of torches, staring into stark nothingness as if he were witnessing what lay in the afterlife. He looked peaceful. His lips were blue, his face pale. Tom let go of Harry's hand in shock, dry blood breaking, and let him fall back, hard. Too hard. He hit the ground with a graceful 'thump' that shattered Tom's heart, who stood up, panicked, staring, clutching his wand. Nothing moved.

Tom felt like a child, ripped of his own power, wide-eyed, terrified, waiting. There was blood pooling around them, blood on their robes. The weapon lay on the ground at his feet. Tom, for a long time, couldn't think, but could feel. He felt too much. It made him frozen.

There were footsteps. They happened too soon. Voldemort lowered his wand, straightening up as the door opened. His eyes were large.

"My Lord," came Lestrange's voice, "I was told you would be –"

He stopped. He had noticed Harry's corpse. Voldemort looked up at him, his expression gone.

"Yes, Lestrange?" he asked quietly.

The Death Eater was silent. He stared at his Lord a long time, his eyes never once daring to flicker to Harry. Voldemort did not appreciate his lack of subtlety. For the first time, he was angry.

"Did you come here to gawk, Lestrange?" he hissed, "Or have you brought me news?"

Before Lestrange could answer, more Death Eaters were arriving. Lestrange cleared the doorway, glancing at Lord Voldemort worriedly.

"Oh, you're here," said Avery heavily, emerging from the shadows, "I guess you told him, then?"

Lestrange did not react to Avery's question. He may not have heard him at all. Avery, standing dumbly, followed Lestrange gaze to Lord Voldemort. Until he spotted Harry.

He didn't make a sound. This was rare for Avery, whose eyes instead snapped to Lord Voldemort. His mouth was agape. Again, Voldemort grew more angry.

"What did you intend to tell me, Lestrange?" he asked in a cold, cruel voice.

Lestrange was sombre. He appeared to have overcome his initial shock, but his eyes were fixed to some point on the ground between them. Avery tried desperately to look at Nott and Crabbe, both of whom ignored him. Lestrange spoke formally.

"There is news on the Order's movements, my Lord. Fresh reports..."

"This is good news," Voldemort pointed out. His eyes bore into the Death Eater's face, who still didn't look up. "You needn't be so docile, Lestrange."

The Death Eater said nothing. Each face Voldemort looked into turned away. In anger, he spoke.

"Are there others waiting?"

"Yes, my Lord."

"Then I shall greet them..."

He didn't look at Harry. There was blood drying on his free hand, matching Harry's hand, blood on his robes. Harry became nothing than a blurry figure out of the corner of his eye as he walked past.

"One of you," he demanded, "fix this in my absence. There will be no funeral..."

He approached the Death Eaters, who stepped back hurriedly.

"I will, my Lord," answered Nott quietly.

In moments, Voldemort was gone. Out into the hallway. It didn't make him feel any less angry. He couldn't shake the image of Harry's eyes from his mind. Never again would he see him, but never again would he forget.

Tom didn't seek the awaiting news in haste. Instead, he crossed the prison he had built for his enemies and headed for an enchanted doorway that would lead him to the main headquarters. For reasons he couldn't bring himself to consider, he was shaking. Everything from his hands to his spine trembled and shook as if any moment now, he might break. His limbs ached in anxiety. He went into his bedroom. The Death Eaters wouldn't notice his absence.

The room was cold and deserted and had haunted him for months. He went into the bathroom beyond it, where the dark tiles showed his own reflection. Ignoring this, he faced the sink. He turned a tap with his wand, cleaning his free hand of blood. He put his wand away slowly, mechanically, refusing to think. The warm water felt like Harry's hand on his own, his blood between their fingers. With both hands, he rubbed the blood from his palm, from beneath his fingernails. The last remainder of Harry's existence –

SMASH!

Before Tom knew what had happened, the mirror before him was broken. His hand was bleeding. Shaken, he stood very still, eyes wide. The glass had shattered, spurts of blood caught between the pieces that remained. There was blood in the sink, both of theirs, and his reflection was gone, broken. Tens of the weapons he had used to kill Harry lay before him, reminding him, tormenting him. He stumbled, soul shattered, and gasped for breath. He closed his eyes and cleared his mind until he saw: he didn't have hands clutching at his own, nor Harry's breath at his ear.

Tom turned away, bringing a trembling hand up to his lips. He ended up smearing more blood on himself than he cleaned, frozen in fear. With his left hand, he took out his wand in haste, wondering why he hadn't used it before. The sink kept running. For a moment, he didn't heal himself. He didn't feel any pain, but the blood kept leaking from him, pouring over his wrist. He wondered if this is how Harry had felt before his death.

A great surge of power ran through Tom, starting from the core of his chest. His eyes closed, his breathing forcibly slow. He remembered the first time he had washed blood from his own hands and how it had affected Harry. He brushed the thought away, breathing slowly. As much as he tried to remain calm, he remembered when Harry had stood in this room with him, talking to him, musing over the end of days... Once more, Tom silenced his thoughts.

His hands were clean. He wiped the blood from his arms, face, and robes with the tip of his wand.

He remembered, too, the last words Harry had spoken to him. He turned his head, closing his eyes tightly. He remembered that look of shock, the feeling of compassion in his breath, in his hands. It was as if it had forgiven Tom. The thought was so powerful that Tom wondered, for a moment, whether he could overcome it. Once, he ran his hands through his dark hair, then again, then again until his nails scraped against his skull and he held his own head, wand in hand, wishing he could stop feeling this anger and this pain.

He stood like this for a long time. There was nothing to hurt, no one to blame. The water kept running alone. What was he supposed to do with this overwhelming anger, his surge of power? What was he supposed to do, and why did he not feel empowered now that the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord had been defeated? He understood that this is how things were meant to be. He had made an irreversible decision, one he knew he must stick to. In times of great change, indecisiveness would lead to defeat.

He became aware that time was passing. The Death Eaters intended to speak to him. The thought made Tom loosen the grip of his hands. He straightened up, opening his eyes slowly, unfocused. He had lost Harry a great many months ago. He would carry on as if nothing had happened – he had to. Harry, after all, did not exist like he had once thought. Pain ran through his chest and his shoulders tensed, but he tried to relax himself, the grip on his wand tightening. He had lost nothing... He alone held the power to Harry's soul souring between the realm of life and death and he alone would decide what happened next...

Formally, elegantly, Tom cleared the sink with a wave of his wand. The glass, now clean, rose up to its former position and the tap ceased pouring water. He left the bathroom, his mind blank, peaceful. Through the bedroom, out into the hall. The Death Eaters would be waiting in the entrance hall. When he arrived, several faces turned.

"My Lord..."

Malfoy was the first to approach him. His face shone bright in the dark light, lit with eagerness. He didn't notice the Dark Lord's cold demeanour.

"My Lord," Malfoy began again, "there are movements with the Order, great changes. Dumbledore has –"

Voldemort held up a hand to silence him. He was growing impatient. "I needn't hear it from you, Lucius. Have any private guests requested to see me?"

The Death Eaters became timid. Many of them, Malfoy most of all, saw his anger as power. He turned it into such.

"No, my Lord," said Rodolphus Lestrange, answering his question from beside Malfoy.

Voldemort was not pleased to hear it. If Rookwood or Peter Pettigrew were not here, he had no interest.

"My Lord," said Malfoy again, his voice urgent. Voldemort was surprised that he dared to speak. "It is of the upmost importance that you listen to what we have learnt. It's Dumbledore, my Lord – he has decided to hide the Potters permanently. We can't locate them."

Voldemort was intrigued, but at once turned to anger.

"You cannot locate them?" he repeated in a cold, deadly voice.

Malfoy's face grew paler than ever, making him look ill.

"My Lord, this is good news!" he said weakly, trying to reason with him. "It proves, once and for all, what you have so determinedly tried to prove – that the Potters alone are who Dumbledore wishes to protect!"

Despite knowing this was true, Voldemort was merciless. His red eyes reverted to slits and he turned upon Malfoy with growing vexation.

"Ah, but who has warned Dumbledore of my interest in the Potters?" he inquired scathingly. "Who, moreover, has allowed the Potters to slip into deeper hiding without my knowledge?"

Malfoy had no answer. He could do nothing but stare at his Lord, his mouth twitching nervously.

None of the other Death Eaters rose to defend him. They seemed to realise, together, that his wrath couldn't be reasoned with.

"Find me the Potters," Voldemort demanded. "Find me any information you can from whomever you may. The consequences of failure will be severe..."

The wizards before him became very still, then, staring in disbelief. He saw an immediate change in their faces, the horrid realisation that no work they did from this point on would end in praise. He had never threatened his Death Eaters for information before. He didn't care. They were to find the Potters or die trying – he expected nothing less of them.

He turned away. No one stopped him. He had a greater issue to deal with tonight.

Voldemort returned to his bedroom without stopping. He couldn't bring himself to stand amongst Death Eaters a moment more when Harry was gone. He was too angry, too horridly pained, and not a single Death Eater had the authority to talk him out of it. That used to be something Harry helped him with. Tom thought about it bitterly as he swung the door shut, his jaw clenched, pacing the room. He ran a hand through his hair, before turning towards a large cupboard.

He had hidden the Mask Horcrux inside. Shining pale in the low light, the Mask greeted him when he approached it. It was cold when he touched it. He picked it up, feeling like a child, and twirled it between his hands. He could feel Harry's soul inside of it. He was sure of it. This was one of three remaining Horcruxes that bound Harry to earth. In sickening anger, Voldemort planned to get rid of this first Horcrux for good. He turned, brushing the wardrobe's door closed.

When he looked out across the room, however, he stopped. What haunted him most about this room was that at each moment, no matter how much time passed, Tom felt as if Harry were about to walk in from a door and turn to him, smiling, asking what's wrong. He was mad to think it and mad to think that the Prophecy could ever be avoided by this point. Tom's eyes flickered to his bed, where he remembered Harry most. Sitting in the low light, watching him.

"Being here feels so right," Harry had told him one evening, early into their stay in this hideout, this dreadful place. "I wish it wouldn't ever end."

"It never has to," he had promised with a kiss.

Tom turned away, his movements stilled. Facing the cupboard once more. His mind was blank, but his heart beat painfully in his ribcage. He remembered the way in which Harry had lay still beside him, not speaking, but holding him, loving him. He remembered how that lie had been the last thing to ever make him happy.

Tom was no longer angry. He couldn't place why. Slowly, unsure of his movements, he opened up the wardrobe. The Mask was cold and suddenly Tom wondered what it would be like to be stuck in the realm between life and death. Wizards weren't advised to stay there for long periods of time. It drove people insane. He placed the Mask back down.

He wondered what the Death Eaters had been trying to tell him. Turning his neck and standing up straighter to relax himself, he left the room. There weren't many people remaining in the entrance hall. Those who were had been speaking amongst themselves and were surprised to see the Dark Lord return. They didn't have much left to report to him, except that the Order had yet again changed headquarters and that no news of their movements had been leaked.

Tom went away quickly. He had no interest in stalling with details and even less interest in risking more anger. He returned to the deserted inner-headquarters alone. If the Potters were being hidden, then he would have to work harder than ever to find a way to reach them. He understood it could take years before that happened, maybe longer. All he cared about was being there the moment Dumbledore's security broke. The Potters, after all, wouldn't last long protected by the Order of the Phoenix...

The Order of the Phoenix. Had Dumbledore, perhaps, chosen this name as a threat? In an attempt to scare Tom with the concept of immortality? A Phoenix, once killed, would rise again from the ashes... but how did Dumbledore expect his Phoenix followers to succeed in this ritual, Tom wondered? Once Voldemort murdered them – as he surely would – they would never rise again. Their fire would be put out. He would kill their families, erase all documentation of their existence in the wizarding war. Even Dumbledore did not know of his magic. Even Harry Potter – dear Harry – could not rise again if Voldemort did not help him.

Alone in his study, Lord Voldemort thought about Harry Potter. It was pain beyond any he knew. It was with anger that blinded and sickened him, making his head spin with thoughts of how he could ever have missed something so severe. He was suffering pain that was surely worse than Hell itself. Tom tried to grab onto other, more thrilling thoughts. He would kill anyone who joined the Order of the Phoenix. He would make them so fearful of an organisation that witches and wizards would fear even to be seen with someone who could be a potential follower. Dumbledore knew nothing of immortality...

Even as days passed, Tom couldn't bring himself to visit the Mask Horcrux. He found excuses not to every night, excuses to postpone and neglect the act as if it didn't matter what he did next. There was a lot of work around to keep him busy – he put the thought at the back of his mind as often as possible. The moment the Death Eaters left each day, he focused on his old work, revising plans, organising attacks, speaking aloud to no one about it. When he went to bed three days on from Harry's death, his mind was full of troubled thoughts.

He couldn't sleep that night. He started where he normally was, lying in the low torchlight, trying to clear his mind. He was exhausted, but kept wondering how the current investigations amongst Death Eaters would go and how many years it would be until they caught and captured the Potters. The week had shaken him. He couldn't overcome the mistake he had made and couldn't believe that those short minutes of Harry's death had ended in an irreversible change. When Tom drifted off to sleep, he dreamt about Harry.

It wasn't a dream, but a nightmare. He dreamt that Harry was swimming before him in darkness, his hair flowing around and his expression blurred, as if submerged in water. When he opened his eyes, he spotted Tom. Instead of a looking relieved, terror found him. He seemed to be drowning. He was being pulled back by unseen hands, struggling, suffocating. Tom couldn't do a thing. He awoke with a jolt and sat up. He shook and breathed in violently. The room was immersed in darkness. He reached for his wand, fingers scrambling across the bedside table.

"Lumos!"

Light flooded the room, blinding him. Harry was nowhere to be seen – not drowning before him, not sleeping next to him. Tom rubbed his face with his free hand, unable to shake a sense of loss, guilt, and powerlessness. An old, fading memory of their love convinced him wrongly that perhaps the nightmare had taken place over a significantly longer period of time.

Tom couldn't sleep that night. He got up and waved his wand to ignite the nearby torches. They lit the room warmly, but he felt cold. In this silent, empty room, he was the only person breathing. He had raised Harry unknowingly to become his equal, his rival. The Prophecy had told him that, so why was it that he couldn't bring himself to hate Harry, as it surely predicted? Tom did everything that the Prophecy had warned him about, he had changed everything to be sure that Harry couldn't defeat him, but there was one problem. He regretted killing Harry. The thought haunted him for a long time.

Tom had suspected for a great number of months that Harry was an Order spy. He thought it from the moment Harry started acting differently, getting comfortable around the Death Eaters, helping with missions. His initial reaction had been anger and distance, but he had eventually learnt to accept what happened, deciding they could work through it. Now, however, that Harry was his prophesied equal, his rival, his enemy, Tom didn't know what to do. He didn't trust fate, but couldn't put his faith in Harry either after hiding something so important for so long.

When Harry had been brought in, Tom had planned to have him tortured, but had never done it. It made many of the Death Eaters wary. Those who knew about Harry's betrayal expected him to be treated like every other snitch and spy who had worked against Lord Voldemort in the past. Tom still wasn't sure why Harry had allowed himself to be captured. Had he planned to kill Tom? Had he known all along how things would end? Was it to plead for forgiveness? The thought made Tom want to do a great deal of damage. He wished he could have listened to hear where Harry stood and wished he could take back control over his overpowering anger.

As time passed impossibly slowly, Tom was left with nothing but anger. He knew it was wearing on him and affecting his judgement, but he couldn't help it. Two days after Harry's death, the Death Eaters gave him news of the Orders' movements and had even brought him in a prisoner. Dorcas Meadows. A talented witch, known for her involvement in the Order of the Phoenix. Voldemort took her personally, without hesitation.

"My Lord," Lestrange said the moment he announced his interest in torturing Meadows, "there are many others who would be honoured to take the job, if you would prefer."

The Death Eaters had already tortured Meadows for a great number of hours and had obtained information on the whereabouts of certain Order members, as well as details in their latest movements. Lestrange clearly wanted more. Voldemort laughed.

"You forget, Lestrange," he responded in a low, quiet voice, "that Dorcas Meadows is a very important witch. I have waited a long time for this..."

Lestrange let him pass by, saying nothing. The chamber was cold, large, and dark. Dorcas Meadows sat at a table formally, a chair opposite her that Voldemort didn't take, even as he moved further into the room. His movements were careful, stilled. Meadows watched him steadily.

Tom hoped he might retrieve some answers from Meadows tonight. Answers to questions that Harry was unable to hear in time. Hungrily, attentively, Voldemort greeted her. Lestrange followed in his shadow.

"Meadows..."

The witch didn't answer him, but her eyes dropped. She kept her face blank. Voldemort sensed she was scared, so he took out his wand.

The chairs and table vanished. Meadows was on her feet at once. She had reached for her wand, but her robes hid no weapons. Voldemort smiled cruelly.

"Let us not act in haste..."

Still, Meadows glared at the Dark Lord, as if she stood a chance. "I wasn't brought here to talk."

"Weren't you?" Voldemort dared. He felt safe, powerful, especially as Lestrange closed the door behind him, withdrawing his wand. "There is a lot I wish to discuss with you, Dorcas..."

The witch stood proud, waiting. Voldemort didn't act irrationally yet, but spoke to her instead. His voice was low, soft, concealing the desperation and worry he felt. If he had to, he would read her mind soon, force Legilimency on her, and gain the answers he sought.

"There was a man," he said, "who joined your ranks many years ago. A man who did not fit in amongst your group, whom Dumbledore treated with the upmost respect. His name was Jonathan... Do you remember him?"

The witch blinked slowly, raising her chin. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Crack!

With a sound like lightning, Meadows hit the floor and began twitching and screaming violently in agony. The Cruciatus Curse was strong. Voldemort allowed it only for a moment, his anger then bursting into a louder question.

"Was Jonathan amongst your group?"

"I don't know what –"

Crack!

She squirmed until tears welled up in her large eyes. Her screams pierced Tom's ears and ricocheted off the chamber walls, repeating itself over and over. Every time she lied, he would hurt her like this. He released the spell, watching her breathe in an agonising shudder of air. He gritted his teeth, growing impatient.

"Jonathan," he spoke again in a hiss, "do you remember him in the Order?"

Meadows was silent for a long time. Voldemort waited, rewarding her for honesty.

Through red eyes, Meadows watched the Dark Lord. Slowly, in pain, she nodded. "I remember..."

Her words hit him hard. In anger, he threw another spell. Her back arched and she screamed once more, the pain of the Cruciatus Curse visible on her. Voldemort barely heard when she pleaded for him to stop in the faint, quick moments of relief.

Again and again, the spell was cast. It took a very long time. Voldemort fell into a moment of rage, envisioning Harry sitting amongst the Order, plotting against him, seen by many. Over and over again, Meadows was Cursed until she was broken.

When his spells stopped, there was silence. Meadows was unconscious. Voldemort had vented his anger and stood tall above her shaking body. He was only dully aware of Lestrange staring at him. When he looked up, he didn't understand why he was giving him that same, steady look.

"My Lord," said Lestrange in a low voice, "if I may be so bold..."

He stared with narrowed eyes, furious. "What is it?"

For the first time, Lestrange looked brave, as if Voldemort's anger were a weakness that made him obviously less powerful. He carried on.

"There is much information Meadows could have carried, my Lord... Information such as who else was in the Order. You wanted, for example, to find out whether Evadne Nott was indeed an Order spy."

That's all Lestrange was here for. Without question, Voldemort turned back to Meadows and with one swift curse, woke her up. She looked peaceful for a moment, until her bruised face hit the full light. She sighed out a rasping breath.

"Nott," said Voldemort in a low, deadly voice, pointing a wand to her throat. "Did Nott work amongst you?"

She was crying, but Voldemort barely noticed, except that she kept choking on her own words.

"Y-yes," she whispered. "N-Nott was – was... Nott w-was valued h-highly –"

Voldemort couldn't take her stuttering. He was right. That's all that mattered and it angered him. With a flash of green light, Meadows crumbled back, slumped where she lay. Voldemort admired his work for a moment, before turning to face Lestrange, wand at his side.

"Does that satisfy you?" he mocked.

The Death Eater said nothing. He was standing very still, staring at Voldemort with wide, frightened eyes, as if he had very recently lost something. Voldemort turned away.

"Clear up this mess..."

He was too impatient to know nor care what Lestrange's reaction was next. He left the room, fully aware that he had taken his anger too far. Many curious Death Eaters lined the halls. They could have learnt the Order's secrets, could have understood Dumbledore's plans with just a little more patience. Tom, however, didn't care, because he needed this control: to kill whomever he may. He returned to total solitude that night.

To his dismay, as days passed, he realised that he could have used more help from Meadows. She had been safe of information waiting to be cracked and after her capture, almost no news came up amongst Death Eaters for possible leads on the Order. Lestrange grew quiet in the worst hours, reminding Voldemort of his mistake. The more time that passed with no reports, the more Voldemort was convinced that one of his own men had again betrayed him.

If Harry wasn't bad enough, who else amongst Tom's followers had decided to work alongside Albus Dumbledore, he wondered? With the Prophecy's claim that the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord had been born, many men had changed allegiance at a certain period of time, but Tom was sure he had flooded out those rats. Could his Death Eaters still doubt his power? Unless they had discovered Jonathan's true involvement in all of this, Tom doubted many witches or wizards would change sides. Harry had always had more power than he was willing to admit.

In an attempt to reenforce the Death Eaters' loyalty, Tom decided to launch a raid against the Order not five days after Harry's death. The catch was, it wasn't against any Order headquarters, but was a personal attack on two very dangerous men: The Prewett Twins. They went down fighting, to no surprise. Dolohov lead the group, driven by Greed, and didn't lose a single man. It gladdened the Dark Lord greatly. The Order would slowly back down with the more men they lost.

When almost a week passed since Harry's death, an unexpected setback emerged. While Tom was busy glancing through a list of witches and wizards across Britain who refused to join him, he was interrupted by a change. He sensed the Dark Mark burn and knew Death Eaters would soon be arriving. They would be in the entrance hall. Tom stood up.

Sure enough, the Death Eaters were waiting in the entrance hall. It was cold and echoed the sound of Voldemort's footsteps when he arrived. The Death Eaters spoke in haste when he stood before them.

"Travers has been captured by the Aurors, my Lord," came the calm voice of Rodolphus Lestrange. Bellatrix stood beside him, her expression dark.

"Travers?" repeated Voldemort, his eyes burning in annoyance.

"I'm sorry, my Lord. There was nothing we could do."

"What happened?"

"I believe Travers got himself caught, my Lord."

Not all of the Death Eaters seemed convinced. Voldemort noticed this as Bellatrix stirred beside her husband. Six or seven witches and wizards behind her glanced over. He was interested.

"What say you, Bellatrix?"

She looked proud to be addressed by the Dark Lord and straightened her chin, standing up taller.

"He was there," Bellatrix told the Dark Lord in a hushed voice. She was leaning away from and glaring at Nott. "He was there when Travers was caught."

Voldemort glanced at Nott, who's attention had been fixated on the stones at his feet. Nott's stare was steady when he noticed the Dark Lord's eyes on him. He didn't seem guilty.

"What happened, Nott?" Voldemort asked him directly.

The Death Eater didn't look particularly grateful for the chance to explain himself, but he made no hesitation before answering.

"Travers has been a suspect of the Aurors ever since the McKinnons' deaths, my Lord," he said quietly. "I couldn't predict their wrath – not before Travers made himself known."

Lord Voldemort considered this slowly. Travers had been known to walk on the edge when it came to his acts of expressing anti-Muggle views. "What did he get himself caught for?"

"There were Aurors following those who attempted to track the Order of the Phoenix, my Lord," Nott answered.

"Why is it that you stand before me unharmed, Nott, if Travers is in the Aurors' hands?"

At this, Nott smiled weakly, as if it were obvious. "My Lord, I didn't follow the Order quite so aggressively. You know it's not in my nature."

Voldemort couldn't disagree, but it didn't please him. "It was your duty to protect Travers. I thought I made this clear."

Nott said nothing. He was somber, unresponsive, and his eyes dropped.

"He can't have forgotten about the Aurors' wrath," Bellatrix commented in the silence. "It's his fault that Travers was caught, my Lord. Surely you see that?"

Voldemort considered Bellatrix's claim, but wasn't wholly convinced. Nott was one of his oldest remaining Death Eater, a companionship that couldn't be doubted for the sake of Auror success. He considered what could be wrong with the wizard, before remembering the fate of Evadne.

"I understand your wife's death has caused you to lose focus, Nott," he said delicately, proud to have figured it out, "but we cannot afford to lose our own people over it. Do you understand?"

Nott looked up without moving his head, giving the Dark Lord a long, steady look. There appeared, for a moment, to be conflict in his eyes. Lord Voldemort was not known for his patience, yet here Nott stood, undecided. When he spoke, his voice was monotonic.

"Yes, my Lord," he agreed quietly.

"You may leave."

Nott did so without hesitation or comment. The moment he walked into darkness, heading for the exit of the hideout, Voldemort turned to Bellatrix. She looked positively outraged, her large eyes frozen on his.

"You are a loyal Death Eater, Bellatrix," he said delicately, "but perhaps your time will lay better in fighting the Order than is does in accusing our own of crimes they did not commit."

Bellatrix wasn't pleased, but she looked at her Lord for a long time and seemed to decide his judgement had to be followed. She nodded once, her large eyes softening.

"Yes, my Lord..."

The conversation ended swiftly after this. Travers' capture didn't end in any short-term affects, so Voldemort felt utterly unfazed by it. To win this war, he had to keep his army strong and not lose focus on the more pressing aspects of it. He was responsible for every movement, every kill, every crime the Death Eaters committed in the name of Wizarding Supremacy. He spent every waking hour plotting and planning against the Ministry and Order, trying to get them out of the way so he could change the Muggle world for good.

It had been a long and laborious war. The same night that Nott left, followed by Bellatrix and the others, Voldemort met with another guest in secret. A guest who refused to mix with the other Death Eaters at large, lest they should give away his identity. Rookwood spoke of plans to take down the Minister within the following year and infiltrate the Ministry at large with a great number of loyal Death Eaters. Voldemort listened closely. As the Dark Lord, he would rise as a great figure, helping the Wizarding World to break the shackles of Muggle suppression...

Visits from Rookwood were often met with surging inspiration that set Tom in a state of ecstasy. He imagined himself standing before a world in which Muggles and Wizards mixed, those who possessed magic overtaking those who didn't. He felt at peace with his own thoughts for the first time in a long time as he sat alone in his study. Rookwood had brought him plans to work with and he dedicated himself to it promptly, poring over notes and papers. He would stand alone as the Dark Lord and rise to become a famed and renown leader, free from help, devoid of Harry's guidance.

This thought was the first of many to lower Tom's mood that night. To win this war, he had to carry on as though nothing had changed, but murdering Harry, watching and feeling him die before him, wasn't something he could forget. The Prophecy warned him that Harry was his equal, which meant that any continuance in their relationship would forever put him in danger. Tom sat back in his chair, neglecting his papers and rubbing a thin hand over his face. He was supposed to move on and forget everything that had happened with Harry before the war, but it had meant the world to him.

Three wars... Three wars, Tom had lived through, counting only one of two treacherous Muggle World Wars. It often made him wonder whether this was his fate. He was born between the World Wars, had grown up to understand Grindelwald's, and now had started one of his own. He could not have predicted that this fight would end up against the man he loved. If he had known sooner, he wondered, would he have stopped training Death Eaters, or would he have stopped loving Harry? He didn't see how it could be any other way.

He couldn't speak to Harry about it. The realisation hit him surprisingly hard that night and he remained very still where he was seated, letting it wash over him. Harry could not understand this conflict within him. Wherever his soul had disappeared to, whatever he may be experiencing, he would never know how much his death affected Voldemort's judgement and how the Death Eaters' movements changed from that point on. Tom would soon be faced with the challenge of eliminating Harry's Horcruxes. It was the next step. He didn't know how to do it.

Years ago, they had both made a promise to resurrect the other in case death occurred during any of the many battles they fought alongside the Death Eaters, or in worse circumstances. The idea had been that they would always have each other waiting on earth to help bring the other back to life, ultimately insuring that the amount of Horcruxes they carried were doubled. Throughout all the research they did, past the Death Eaters and Dragons they trained, through every dangerous attempt to kill and capture Ministry figures, they were meant to be safe. Tom was the only person on earth who knew about Harry's Horcruxes. He was the only one able to kill or bring him back to life now.

The choice is what hurt him most, he thought. In the low light of his study, Tom stared into space, trying to imagine the realm between life and death. He understood, dully, that he would need to tell another Death Eater about his immortality and instruct them on how to resurrect him, but the thought played a minor threat to him. He didn't know how he was supposed to bring himself to kill Harry fully. He had the tools, had the time, and had more reason to than he could bear... so why was it difficult? The thought frustrated him. It played on his mind and tormented him so much that by the time he went to bed that night, he was furious.

Voldemort remained in an unstable state from this point out, battling between anger and remorse. Problems with the Death Eaters were piling up ever since Travers' capture and he couldn't seem to find the root of the problem. Unlike in past years, when Voldemort had been thrilled to rule out and discover flaws in his complex plans, he now wanted the problems to go away so he could just think. There was no way to express this to his Death Eaters. They turned to him with hopeful eyes, clearly wondering what great tricks he would come up with next.

When a certain situation arose, Voldemort couldn't take it any longer. In a chase against the Order of the Phoenix, a number of his own Death Eaters – Dolohov, two Lestranges, Yaxley, and others – had failed to kill or capture anyone from the Order and had returned empty-handed of information. It was as if the Order had been expecting them, waiting for the last minute to disappear. It infuriated the Dark Lord, who showed no mercy for his own wounded fighters. Dolohov had very nearly felt the Aurors' grasp upon him and it was he who Voldemort decided to blame.

"Has Dolohov no concept of the dangers that dwell before him?" he asked in a scathing whisper, speaking at large to the few Death Eaters brave enough to report the news. "Has he underestimated the importance of trapping and killing off the Order?"

"My Lord," said Yaxley, his face pale, "there was nothing we could have done to prevent the Order leaving. They're too familiar with our attack strategy, too comfortable with our impending arrival –"

"I needn't hear excuses from you for your own lack of imagination and skill, Yaxley," Voldemort retorted coldly. "There's no excuse."

The Death Eater was more uncomfortable than scared. Voldemort's burning gaze rested on him, his reddened eyes steady and his dark hair, usually neat, falling over his colourless face. His large, spider-like hands grasped the arms of the chair he sat at, his knuckles paler than ever.

"Where is Dolohov tonight?" he demanded in a hiss, his eyes turning to Lestrange and Avery. "He surely doesn't think hiding will shield him from Lord Voldemort's wrath?"

"There is no saying, my Lord," Lestrange answered calmly. "We haven't located him yet."

"So, he is hiding?"

No one answered. He took it as a 'yes' and was furious that no one remained brave enough to express it. Scowling in impatience, Voldemort sat up slowly, his shoulders relaxing forcefully. The handsome cut of his robes and the glint of a goblin-made necklace was visible in the torchlight, reminding the Death Eaters of his wealth, his power. Pushing back his hair in frustration, the Dark Lord spoke.

"Avery, Yaxley, you'll be in charge of hunting Dolohov's trail."

The Death Eaters addressed didn't respond. They, instead, became very still.

"You will bring him to me within the following twenty-four hours," Voldemort carried on quietly, his eyes closed, envisioning Harry's face. "There, he shall be interrogated for information to explain his absence, the failure of his recent tasks, and any useful information he may be hiding from me for his own protection..."

Still, the Death Eaters didn't speak. When Voldemort looked up, Avery was glancing worriedly at Lestrange, who bravely met his gaze. When Yaxley, too, looked towards him, it became clear that they were uncomfortable with the orders.

"What is the problem?" Voldemort asked them gently, his expression unkind. "Do you fear Dolohov's power?"

Avery and Yaxley said nothing. Their faces were pale and they shifted where they stood.

"Or do you perhaps support his lack of competence?" the Dark Lord suggested. "Do you think, perhaps, that he is indeed trying hard enough, but that the information we seek, the Order we're trying to destroy, should be allowed to carry on?"

"No, my Lord," said Yaxley at once. "Of course not, my Lord!"

Avery shook his head vigorously. "No, m'Lord."

Voldemort became more infuriated with each passing second. He stood up from where he was seated, watching seven pairs of eyes follow the movement.

"Are you attempting to convince me that Dolohov's actions are justified?" he asked his Death Eaters, "or do I have to give you all the same treatment before you satisfactorily understand the significance of his recklessness, his lucklessness?"

"My Lord..."

Lestrange's voice was strong. He stepped forwards from amongst the Death Eaters, appearing far from scared, even with everyone's eyes on him. Voldemort was stunned.

"My Lord," he said again, his expression apathetic, "no one here needs to be punished for the Order's luck."

Voldemort didn't understand. He was sure many of the Death Eaters would be happy to see Dolohov in Ministry custody, so surely Death would be an even better permanent residence for him? The Death Eaters looked scared. It only infuriated him more. He waited for Lestrange to speak again, to explain himself.

"There has been and will always be mistakes during our attempts to overthrow Dumbledore's army, my Lord. Fortunes and misfortunes will occur, but it remains just that: chance."

Voldemort understood, but he wasn't pleased that Lestrange was changing his orders. For a long moment, he watched the Death Eater stand bravely, then made up his mind. It was a rash decision, made in haste, acted in an instant.

"Avery, Yaxley, you needn't chase Dolohov. He will come to us... but all of you, leave at once."

It seemed to go without question that Lestrange was supposed to stay behind. He didn't avert his attention, even when the six men behind him disappeared into the shadows, their footsteps leading them onwards. Voldemort temper raged on, but remained calm on the surface. He sat down again.

Lestrange seemed to have become a great deal calmer, lately. For years, he had tried desperately to win the Dark Lord's attention and prove himself a loyal Death Eater, but decades had passed now, so competition was fading. Lestrange, alongside Nott, had outlived every other Knight of Walpurgis and had watched them all die too young. With Harry, too, gone from sight, and Nott preoccupied with the death of his traitor of a wife, Lestrange stood alone with the Dark Lord. He got what he wanted.

The accomplishment didn't seem to please him. As he stood here bravely, waiting for the Dark Lord to do something, his eyes flickered between Tom's as if he knew exactly how Harry's death was affecting him. It made the Dark Lord uncomfortable, but he hid it well. Lestrange had always known a great number of secrets that the Death Eaters didn't dare to question. This was his job: to remain far from judgement, to focus on the war rather than Voldemort's personal affairs. Standing before the Dark Lord now, Lestrange blinked slowly, breathing evenly, thinking.

Voldemort didn't interrupt his thoughts. He didn't even remain angry. His long fingers tapped on the left arm of his chair, his expression unamused. Lestrange spoke quietly, calmly.

"Anger will be your downfall if you cannot control it..."

That was all. Lord Voldemort stared at him, his glare harsh for a long moment, until it faded. He felt as if the solitude that confided them was a significant representation of the recent changes that had taken place. Lord Voldemort was winning the war, but in reality, this is where he stood: alone in a dark room, with no one left brave enough to talk to him besides Lestrange. There were many men who met with Voldemort in private, playing the war game. Many men who would praise the Dark Lord in fear. Lestrange was the only person left who dared to be honest with him.

"You may leave," Voldemort said in a low voice. He was no longer angry, but watched Lestrange with a look of knowing curiosity. The Death Eater bowed his head once, before turning away. Voldemort was left in silence.

He understood what Lestrange had meant. Seated on a throne of power, Voldemort couldn't be kept grounded without someone to remind him exactly where earth was. Right beneath his feet. It was to keep him stable, to remind him the facts, to stay watchful of enemies at eye-level. Harry used to be this figure. Tom understood that Lestrange wasn't trying to replace him, even if he was stepping up to fulfil the role of Voldemort's closest follower. Tom also rather thought it wasn't just for credit – with no competition, Lestrange had no reason to stay stable towards the Dark Lord, except to keep things balanced.

Some part of Tom wished Lestrange had been there prior to Harry's death. The thought hit him like a dagger when he sat alone, brooding in his chair. That may have kept him calmer. In the months Tom had spent searching for Harry, Nott and Lestrange had been loyal followers to him, staying on each side of him, separate from each other. They had made sure Voldemort didn't do anything irrational in haste. By the time he found Harry, however, they seemed to leave Tom to his own business, confused as to what Harry had done to hurt him initially. If the Dark Lord had been honest, things could have worked out differently.

Voldemort decided to move. Out of the entrance hall, back to his bedroom at the heart of this hideout. He had moved closer to Harry's Horcrux, the Mask, but knew he wouldn't bring himself to destroy it today. The bedroom was dark, even when he ignited the torches. Black and green velvet hung down from the four-poster bed frame, curtains open, while the windowless room remained unnaturally still. He had built a fortress so powerful, so hidden, that not a single breath of air nor flutter of an insect's wings disturbed his war-full mind.

Voldemort didn't know what he was doing here. There were tens of projects he could be dedicating his time to, many Death Eaters and others he could speak to, but all he wanted to do was stand very still in this room, thinking. Killing an object should have been easier than killing a person. This was simple fact. Watching Harry clutch at him, slipping into death, and seeing the light leave his eyes should be harder than piercing a Mask with a basilisk's fang, but the memory haunted him every time he picked up Harry's soul for the last time. Tonight, he wasn't going to touch the Mask Horcrux. He wasn't going to make any plans. He needed to think.

Tom took a seat down at his desk, but didn't pay attention to the papers strewn and scattered nearby. Head in his hands, he thought about everything that had happened. He had one Horcrux in his possession, two hidden by Harry elsewhere. He became agitated at the very thought, trying to slow his breath down, even when his mind raced. He was beginning to realise that if things carried on the way they were, his anger would destroy all of his work on the war. Harry had wanted nothing more than for all of this to stop. In death, his wish had been forcibly gained.

Stuck between regret and pain, Voldemort fought between believing in the Prophecy and believing what Harry had told him: that none of this had to happen. The Dark Lord wanted nothing more than to believe that Dumbledore was wrong, the Prophecy flawed, but the very act of doubting Harry's word, his loyalty, had lead to all of this. Stuck between two beliefs, he made more mistakes than he ever would with a solid state of mind. Indecision would lead to a downfall. Indecision would leave him burning in confusion. So, he made his choice.

It was then that he realised that Love was not a strength, but a weakness. Anything, he supposed, that Dumbledore believed in surely had to be worked against. The only thing Tom had ever taken from his old Headmaster was an outward appearance of tranquillity – something he had failed to master recently. By remaining constantly calm, Dumbledore had succeeded in reminding all those around him that his way of life, his beliefs, and his thoughts were so valuable that they kept him grounded at all times. The thought drove Tom mad sometimes – and this was one of those times. If Dumbledore believed in Love, why was he calm?

As Lestrange himself had said, to become a Dark Lord worthy of ruling this world, Tom had to eliminate his anger. Anger was the result of losing Harry, the result of losing Love, and it was destroying everything Tom had left. His mind, his judgement, his orders, his foresight – all blurred by red, burning ire. To become strong once more, he must eliminate all that brought him weakness. Love proved itself to be his greatest weakness of all, nothing more than a distraction, a flaw that would hinder his greatness.

How might he go about eliminating Love, Tom wondered? The thought played on his mind violently, shaking him down to his core. Killing Harry and destroying his Horcruxes wasn't enough. Tom couldn't shake this tremor of rage, this sea of anguish that crashed throughout his lungs and blinded his sight. Harry was the source of his Love, yes, but destroying him now destroyed the Dark Lord too. They were too connected, he felt. Too much time had passed in which they were bound by words, Horcruxes, and promises.

To shake this pain, Tom realised, to shake this anguish and anger, he had to shake the roots of love that dug deep into his heart. After all, the opposite of love isn't hate, but indifference. Every small promise, every whisper of affection, touch, and kiss, every thought he had ever had on staying with Harry as an immortal being for the rest of existence, had to be eliminated. He must shake himself out of his sense of anger, because allowing anger in his heart proved love once existed there. Then an idea occurred to the Dark Lord. An idea so strong, so meaningful to him that he froze where he sat, his gaze dead, excitement and hatred burning in his stomach like a slow wisp of fire.

There was a way to murder Harry without touching any of his Horcruxes. With one quick movement, there was a way Tom could end all of this, starting afresh. Lord Voldemort was in close proximity to Harry's own beginning. The Potters, under Dumbledore's protection, held a child in their arms who would always grow up to become the man that Voldemort knew and loved. Tom needed to erase all of his history with Harry to remain a focused, able Dark Lord. This was his only way to. He would kill the child, Harry Potter. To eliminate the child would be to eliminate Harry completely.

The thought made Tom stand up in blind delirium. He would undo all desire. If there was no Harry Potter, there would be no Love, no pain, and nothing to hold him back. With no Harry Potter, there would be no Horcruxes for him to destroy, no years of partnership, no romance, magic, and no Prophecy.

He wouldn't make any further plans to hunt Harry's Horcruxes. He wouldn't command his Death Eaters to chase down the Order anymore to learn of Harry's involvement in their old plans. It didn't matter to him. The only thing that mattered to Voldemort now was that child. He would not monitor the Potters from this point on. He would not wait years for the child to grow and spy on him to see if Dumbledore decided to train him against the Dark Arts in a vain attempt to defeat him. No, killing the child was the only way out of this now. He, Lord Voldemort, would show no mercy.

It happened very fast. Almost magically, as if fate were rewarding him, Voldemort's decision to murder Harry Potter came with a very fortunate coincidence. He stayed up until the early hours of that morning, waiting to change the Death Eaters' entire attack strategy, when he was met by a very early visitor. He was not accustomed to seeing Death Eaters during daylight, but he understood Peter Pettigrew was attempting to be discreet. They met in Voldemort's study, where the windows told tall truths about the cold, grey weather outside.

"Wormtail," said Voldemort gently, his vision boring into those beady eyes, "why do you stand here so frightened, so lively? Pray, you have not made a mistake."

He enjoyed using the name 'Wormtail' in relation to Peter Pettigrew. It was a false sign of closeness to the rat who would soon betray his greatest friends. Voldemort had learnt a great deal of information from this young wizard through intimidation alone. The more he knew, the more poor Peter seemed to pour – it was a useful trick. A cunning method.

Wormtail didn't answer his Lord quickly. He stood where he was, hands brought together, shaking. His eyes darting again and again to Lestrange, who had let him in, as if he couldn't quite decide whether he could be trusted. Voldemort watched Peter closely, something like hope growing in him. Pettigrew was both terrified and enthralled.

"M-My Lord, I..."

He waited. The Dark Lord was not usually so patient, but when Lestrange tried to speak, he held up a delicate hand in silence. Peter was wetting his lips, sweating, a smile breaking across his face nervously, then falling, constantly. Voldemort had never witnessed such distress.

"M-My Lord... I – I need to know t-that you and your – your Death Eaters will keep me s-safe. When I tell you... when I tell you what I have learnt, I need to know that you – my L-Lord – you will protect me!"

Voldemort was transfixed. His eyes widened, his head tilted. "Carry on?"

"P-promise me –!"

"You have my word, Wormtail," he swore delicately, "that you shall remain safe, given any situation that involves the Order turning against you. Now, tell me – what have you seen?"

By this point, Peter had begun to shake violently. Bringing thick fingers up to his lips, as if in prayer, he fell between laughter and pain. He caught Lestrange's eye, who remained impassive.

"My Lord, t-there was a change," Wormtail stuttered. "The Fidelius Charm that Dumbledore planned to place – that Dumbledore initiated – has b-been compromised... Sirius Black – he didn't want to be the Secret Keeper! My Lord – M-My Lord, he... he suggested it is I who should guard the Potters!"

Voldemort became very still. Lestrange followed in unison, his bored eyes suddenly alive. He passed the Dark Lord a look of disbelief, before they turned back to Peter. Only one thought was on the Voldemort's mind. If Peter meant what he thought he did, he could extinguish Harry Potter before he even began. With this small slip, Voldemort had won the war...

"Peter," he said softly, looking at the small rat with praising eyes, "Pray, do tell me..."

Before he could even form a question, Peter spoke again, sweating heavily, frantic.

"I had to wait a week to tell you, my Lord!" he said. "I c-could not escape their w-wonder... We must act now, before it's too late... Th-There's no telling for how much longer they'll t-t-trust me..."

Voldemort waited for Lestrange's approval. Silently, they passed a look, one that told him in somber desperation that Lestrange knew what came next. They would attack the Potters. This opportunity could not be dealt with any other way...

"Peter," said the Dark Lord quietly, "I need you to listen closely for what I am about to say..."

"Y-yes, my Lord?"

Voldemort straightened up where he was seated, a fire of courage, accomplishment, and wonder growing in his chest. He felt lighthearted, enthralled, and no amount of Peter's squirming could convince him that there was anything left to fear. He felt not a drop of anger and the light in his eyes convinced Lestrange, wholly, that he was making a rational decision. The Dark Lord spoke.

"You are not to see the Potters today, Peter... I want you to go home, make yourself known, and give the Order an excuse for your absence. Anything believable. You will be followed home by seven Death Eaters, all of whom will capture and murder anyone who decides to pay you a visit. By this time tomorrow morning, you will walk away a free man, openly under the protection of Lord Voldemort and the Death Eaters... Do you understand what I am saying?"

Blood drained from Peter's face. His thin lips, chapped with dehydration, trembled.

Voldemort sat forward in his chair then. It made him appear taller to the already short Peter Pettigrew. His head tilted and he expressed his euphoria through eyes that glinted in overwhelmed happiness.

"You are not to leave this room, Wormtail, until you tell me how to break Dumbledore's Fidelius Charm. You are safe now. I will deal with the matter of the Potters with minimal destruction, taking the boy from his parents' hands. Do you understand?"

Wormtail nodded violently, but seemed shaken by one thought. "B-but my – my Lord... you will not h-hurt the P-Potters, will you? You won't h-harm them or – or –?"

At this, the Dark Lord laughed. It was a stunned, maniacal gesture that far from assured Peter of his better judgement. The rat had done his duty by destroying Dumbledore's security and could do no more. Voldemort's voice echoed against the harsh stone and pierced the ears of Pettigrew and Lestrange.

"My dear Peter," he said in a harsh, impassioned hiss, overwhelmed by happiness, "whether or not the Potters choose to fight me is their own responsibility... No, I do not think it should matter to you by this point in time. You have betrayed your friends, have proven yourself loyal to the Death Eaters and Death Eaters alone. Here – Lestrange, if you would do the honours, I rather believe Wormtail deserves a reward. A mark of his loyalty to the Dark Lord..."

Lestrange understood. He nodded once, not smiling, and turned to Peter.

"Give me your arm."

"W-What are y-you –?"

There was a flash of white light. In an instant, Lestrange branded Wormtail with the Dark Mark. He cried out in shock and pulled his arm away, terrified, but the mark seared red and black. The Dark Lord smiled once more, shaken into a stunned state of disbelief.

"Tomorrow, you will walk away a free man, Wormtail. It will be a brand new world..."

With Lestrange as his assistant to intimidate Pettigrew, Voldemort learnt all the information he needed on the Potters, becoming a Secret Keeper. Lestrange could not convince him to wait a day longer, even after Peter left, so the Dark Lord spent the next hours drawing up plans and calling in Death Eaters to make arrangements for the downfall of the Dark Lord's rival. He didn't dare let a soul more than Pettigrew, Lestrange, and himself know about what he had learnt today. Even when he sent a group of Death Eaters to stalk Peter, another group to stalk the Longbottoms, he didn't confide in anyone.

"It's a day of celebration indeed, my Lord," commented Lestrange in private by the time night fell. "Do you expect no complications?"

"None at all, Lestrange," Voldemort answered him, allowing himself one last grin of maddening success. "The Potters have no idea..."

"I will watch over Peter, my Lord, in your absence."

Voldemort was glad to hear it. Lestrange's sons had already been called to keep an eye on the Longbottoms from this point on, an afterthought in consideration to the Prophecy's claim that the boy would be born on the exact date Neville Longbottom was. The Dark Lord had no doubts, however, that Harry Potter was his rival. Staring into a mirror at his own warped, pale reflection, Tom could hardly imagine what the world would be like when he eliminated Love...

"Would you like me to accompany you to the Potters, my Lord?" Lestrange then asked, his tone curious.

"Why would I?" Voldemort asked him arrogantly. "I shan't be there longer than necessary. Your presence might warn the Order."

Lestrange seemed to understand. He nodded once. Voldemort drew up his hood and was knocked into a mental state of unreality. It seemed too good to be happening, too overwhelmingly surreal to end like this. Kill Harry Potter, and he will never know love...

"I shan't wait a moment longer," the Dark Lord murmured to his own reflection. His eyes were red, his skin blurred and warped with a lifetime's worth of the Dark Arts on him. In a quiet voice, the then added, "When I see you again, Lestrange, this world will have changed."

"Yes, my Lord," Lestrange agreed, watching him. He appeared proud, confident. "I'll be waiting here for you."

This seemed to be the final word. The Dark Lord turned away, feeling his wand at his side, and left Lestrange. Not a single Death Eater disturbed him on his way out of the hideout. Men and women knew him as he passed and watched him with hopeful eyes, noticing that today, the Dark Lord stood tall, more powerful than ever. London was cold, but the rural town of Godric's Hollow was colder when Voldemort Apparated to its streets. With anger eliminated, bravery burned in the Dark Lord's heart...

The night was wet and windy, two children dressed as pumpkins waddling across the square, and the shop window covered in paper spiders, all the tawdry Muggle trapping of a world in which they did not believe... And he was gliding along, that sense of purpose and power and rightness in him that he always knew on these occasions... Not anger... that was for weaker souls than he... but triumph, yes... He had waited for this, he had hoped for it...

"Nice costume, mister!"

He saw the small boy's smile falter as he ran near enough to see beneath the hood of the cloak, saw the fear cloud his painted face.

Then the child turned and ran away... Beneath the robe, he fingered the handle of his wand... One simple movement and the child would never reach his mother... but unnecessary, quite unnecessary...

And along a new and darker street he moved, and now his destination was in sight at last, the Fidelius Charm broken, though they did not know it yet... And he made less noise than the dead leaves slithering along the pavement as he drew level with the dark hedge, and peered over it...

They had not drawn the curtains; he saw them quite clearly in their little sitting room, the tall black-haired man in his glasses, making puffs of coloured smoke erupt from his wand for the amusement of the small black-haired boy in his blue pyjamas. The child was laughing and trying to catch the smoke, to grab it in his small fist...

A door opened and the mother entered, saying words he could not hear, her long dark-red hair falling over her face. Now the father scooped up the son and handed him to the mother. He threw his wand down upon the sofa and stretched, yawning...

The gate creaked a little as he pushed it open, but James Potter did no hear. His white hand pulled out the wand beneath his cloak and pointed it at the door, which burst open.

He was over the threshold as James came sprinting into the hall. It was easy, too easy, he had not even picked up his wand...

"Lily, take Harry and go! It's him! Go! Run! I'll hold him off!"

Hold him off, without a wand in his hand? He laughed before casting the curse...

"Avada Kedavra!"

The green light filled the cramped hallway, it lit the pram pushed against the wall, it made the banisters glare like lightning rods, and James Potter fell like a marionette whose strings were cut...

He could hear her screaming from the upper floor, trapped, but as long as she was sensible, she, at least, had nothing to fear... He climbed the steps, listening with faint amusement to her attempts to barricade herself in... She had no wand either... How stupid they were, and how trusting, thinking that their safety lay in friends, that weapons could be discarded even for moments...

He forced the door open, cast aside the chair and boxes hastily piled against it with one lazy wave of his wand... and there she stood, the child in her arms. At the last sight of him, she dropped her son into the crib behind her and threw her arms wide, as if this would help, as if in shielding him from sight she hoped to be chosen instead...

"Not Harry, not Harry, please not Harry!"

"Stand aside, you silly girl... stand aside now."

"Not Harry, please no, take me, kill me instead –"

"This is my last warning –"

"Not Harry! Please... have mercy... have mercy... Not Harry! Not Harry! Please – I'll do anything –"

"Stand aside. Stand aside, girl!"

He could have forced her away from the crib, but it seemed more prudent to finish them all...

The green light flashed around the room and she dropped like her husband. The child had not cried all this time. He could stand, clutching the bars of his crib and he looked up into the intruder's face with a kind of bright interest, perhaps thinking that it was his father who hid beneath the cloak, making more pretty light, and his mother would pop up any moment, laughing –

He pointed the wand very carefully into the boy's face. He wanted to see it happen, the destruction of this one, inexplicable danger. The child began to cry. It had seen that he was not James. He did not like it crying, he had never been able to stomach the small ones whining in the orphanage –

"Avada Kedavra!"

And then he broke; he was nothing, nothing but pain and terror, and he must hide himself, not here in the rubble of the ruined house, where the child was trapped and screaming, but far away... far away...

– X –

He was choking on his own blood. Swimming in a storm of terror that flickered in and out of time like lightning, he tried to grasp for breath. He was being pulled back into reality, back into something, but the pain was like nothing he had ever experienced before. For hours, forever, he switched between soul and mind, aching in a physical form he thought he may have never felt before at all. It was as if he were being held under water. No matter how much he fought, they wouldn't let him breathe.

Things remained this way for a while. He worked outside of space and time, forced into something he couldn't quite remember. When he was human enough to move, he opened his eyes to a blurred, milky haze. He heard sounds – a heartbeat, rasping breath, tremors, organs moving and jolting into action – but nothing was familiar. Nothing remained of his old self yet. There were hands on him, a burning touch pulling at his arms and words spoken to him. Light flashed before his eyes many times before he awoke.

In waking memory, he lay on his back. There was a ceiling. Breathing came naturally to him, but memories were harsh. His own ego, his sense of self, slotted into place forcibly and painfully. He couldn't believe that this could be him, but here he was, stunned. He was lying on a bed. That's what they called it. No one was leaning over him anymore, but he felt hand-prints on his arms still as if he had been branded. When he awoke enough to move, he turned. On a chair, in gravity, hooked to an earth, sat a human. A human, moreover, with a familiar face.

"Nott..."

Harry spoke in an unfamiliar voice, the voice of a much younger man. Someone purer.

From across the room, he saw a smile break across Nott's face. He rushed to Harry's side too quickly; suddenly he was there, his face lit with wonder and his blue eyes, like two planets, shining.

It wasn't until Harry stirred in pain, his eyes closing, that he stopped. Harry fought down violent memories that came flooding back to him now.

"What did you see?"

Nott guessed these things too quickly. Harry struggled to answer. Thoughts rushed to him: seeing his parents, witnessing Voldemort's transformation and sudden death...

"It's done," he managed, his voice hoarse. "It's over. Voldemort's been banished..."

A look of amazement crossed Nott's face. He moved and Harry tried to sit up, but found he couldn't. Nott was pale. He urged Harry back, looking older and more exhausted than Harry had ever seen him before. He was pained.

"I know," Nott explained slowly, speaking in a whisper. "Harry, it's – it's been three years..."