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Chapter 3: 1st of August, 1991

The leader of the British Wizarding World was sitting in his office late at night, looking over a new law proposal that would be submitted to the Wizengamot the next day. The wind was howling outside and the windows were rattling, but nothing broke the concentration of the powerful man. When the Dark Lord was satisfied with his work, he put down his feather and massaged his temples.

A sigh climbed its way up to his lips, but he clenched the urge down. He was where he always wanted to be. He was the ruler of the Wizarding World, for Morgana's sake! Couldn't he, at last, be satisfied with his life? The Rebels were isolated, weak, and hopeless, he had treaties of alliance with most of the neighbouring countries (and the others would give in soon enough when they see what I have planned for them, he thought with a sly smirk.) and the economy was thriving, making those greedy Goblins happy as well. However, he couldn't help but to be bored, sometimes. The lack of challenge, he supposed. I might get Severus and Lucius to duel me simultaneously tomorrow, that combination should need a minimum of effort from my part. Yes, that will do fine.

His alert senses picked up the presence of an owl outside his window seconds before the bird arrived. He opened the window with a wave of his hand (one can lose their ability to do wandless magic if they do not practice enough. It wouldn't do for him to lose this edge now) and cast numerous complex charms of detection. His wards would have picked up anything obvious, but, as the sole Master of the British Wizarding World (as he liked to remind himself often), one could never be too careful. He suspected that, was he to be hit again by a killing curse, he would not be so lucky as to regain a body within a few months this time. He had contingency plans for such an eventuality, but it would delay him too much in the accomplishment of his vision...

The owl came out clean, but when he opened the letter, a little glass tube fell out at the same time. Who would send him a memory vial? He checked the letter. Ollivander, apparently.

It read:

To the Dark Lord and Beloved Leader of the British Wizarding Nation,

As per your request, I am hereby informing you that a customer came to my shop today and purchased the other wand. For security reasons, I shall not say anything else here. The tube will self-destroy if anyone uses another wand than yours to open it.

Your humble subject and wand-maker,

Garrick Ollivander

The Dark Lord let the parchment roll back on itself while he thought of this new development. Who could have the brother of his wand? An eleven years old going to Hogwarts, perhaps? Circe, he hoped it wasn't Lucius' spawn. That child's head could only inflate so much more before it exploded.

He summoned his Pensive, transferred the memory and dived in.

The dusty old wand shop hadn't changed at all since his last visit so long ago and Ollivander, sensing a client approaching, disillusioned himself in a corner to have a few moments to observe their behaviour. The old man had once told him that he could, in such a short time, determine the type of wood and sometimes even the type of core of the wand which would chose his new client by evaluating their character. It worked for the majority of clients, anyway. But there were always a few exceptions, and the Dark Lord was secretly proud that the wand that chose him surprised Ollivander greatly.

The entrance bell rang; a blond man with brilliant green eyes entered the shop, pulling a boy of about eleven with him. He looked around, trying to appear casual, but to any keen observers (and both Ollivander and him were so), he showed in every glance and every curt movement that he was both nervous and afraid. The Dark Lord's observant eyes detected a faint shimmer around the face of the man. He must be wearing a glamour. Buying a first wand for your son doesn't require such precaution usually. Voldemort turned his eyes on the boy that accompanied him. He might be the source of man's anxiety.

At a first glance, he didn't recognise him. He looked like the average boy, except for his wild dark hair, and his eyes of the same green as the glamoured parent. He appeared to be trying to adopt a neutral, blank face, but he only managed to look bored and slightly resentful whenever he looked at his father. So, this is the owner of the brother of my wand...a bit disappointing, I'd say. He doesn't seem to appreciate his gift of magic as much as I did at his age. His thoughts came to an abrupt halt when he noticed that the boy, after a quick look around, was squinting at the place where Ollivander was hidden, as if he was trying to see under the Disillusionment charm! Was he magic-sensitive? Was he trained? Just who was that boy? He looked at him more carefully...those eyes remind me of someone else, of a young woman, some time ago. Or maybe, of a baby? The memory was just out of his reach.

Ollivander chose that time to make his entrance. The boy, who had still been looking in his direction, lifted an eyebrow and had a small self-satisfied smirk. His father, however, jumped a bit and turned around quickly to face him. The wand-maker, who remembers every wand's ever sold, proceeded with his usual greetings.

"Ah, mister Black, or at least I assume it is you under this glamour? Walnut, unicorn hair, 10 inches and a half? And you have brought young mister Potter with you, delightful! Are you getting ready for Hogwarts, young man?

Black, none too happy to have been recognised, brusquely interrupted him and threatened to Obliviate him the minute their business would be done. It works better when you try to surprise the victim, idiot.

"Why did you tell him that? Now he'll defend himself better since he's expecting the magic. He'll be building up his mental shields the whole time we're here." said the little Potter, who apparently had an alarming level of knowledge on memory charms.

"Yes, I know brat, I taught you that," said Black with a slightly frustrated tone. "It's just that normally, when you say that, then the people panic, and they offer you an oath of silence instead. Like now, old man, which do you prefer?"

Ollivander replied by drawing his wand silently. Will this end in a battle? the Dark Lord wondered as he saw Black draw his own in a flash while Potter drew...a knife from his side pocket? A big, sharp-looking knife. And he looked worriedly at ease holding it. What else did Black teach him? By Salazar, does he know of the Prophecy? Is he training him to kill me?

Voldemort, after his body was killed by his own rebounded curse, had erred as a spirit for a few months before he felt called by one of his horcruxes. He had long hesitated before handing the diary to Lucius, all those years ago, but he then saw that his choice had been the right one to make. In a rare moment of sanity, he had even told Lucius that, were he to suddenly disappear, his loyal Death Eater should find a weak-minded wizard or witch and give the diary to them.

Lucius gave the diary to Peter Pettigrew, who had come to seek refuge in his manor. Within a few months, his horcrux had fulfilled its purpose and managed to create a body (killing Pettigrew in the process, but it wasn't a great loss to his ranks). He reunited with the first part of soul he had severed and, as a result, regained a precious part of his lost sanity. He had then sat down and evaluated the decisions he had taken in the last twenty years and found most of them illogical and counter-productive: For instance, since when did he believe in prophecies? How many of them are left unfulfilled on the shelves of the Department of Mystery? After some research, he discovered that only a small proportion of them were fulfilled and that, of those, most only worked because the people concerned by the prophecy had actually heard it, and acted in consequence. In the light of such an eye-opening conclusion, he had decided that he would not lose one more of his precious minutes actively searching for the boy. Anyway, it would be quite some time before a baby could become his equal, realistically.

And over the time, well, by Morgana, he had nearly forgotten about the boy! He's eleven, already? Ah, now he remembered the eyes. His mother had so brazenly glared at him seconds before she died, offering her sacrifice to save her son at all costs. Such devotion had surprised him. His own mother had, after all, abandoned him to a miserable life in an orphanage because she was heartbroken over the loss of his cowardly Muggle of a father.

Ollivander then said something that caught his attention.

"So he's not going to Hogwarts then?

-No, it's too dangerous for him there, you understand, with the part he played in the Voldemort's downfall." Is that so? thought the Dark Lord, surprised. He didn't think anybody had tried to hurt the Potter boy in the past ten years, but he could be wrong. If he'd gone to Hogwarts, I would have been able to control him better, to know what he was up to. This whole thing is starting to worry me, slightly. What else are Black and the other Rebels teaching the boy?

"Short absence, you mean", corrected Ollivander who, by now, probably knew he would send him a copy of the event afterwards and was laying it thick to appear like a loyal follower and not someone who had Black in reach and just let him go.

"More like resurrection, I'd say. But anyway, he didn't even receive an Hogwarts letter, so the question was solved by itself." added Black with a careless wave. The Potter boy, who had returned to his attempted neutral face, bristled quite visibly at that, clenching his fists. Then, the rebel proceeded to explain to the wandmaker that his godson wasn't a Squib, but that perhaps Snape's old hatred for James Potter would explain why the Headmaster had crossed Harry's name from the list of attendees. The longer he talked, the more furious Harry happened to be. At first, the Dark Lord thought the boy shared the same hatred for Severus as did Black and Potter, but he soon realised that Harry was directing his glare toward his beloved godfather. Trouble in paradise, I wonder? Hum...perhaps he would, with a bit of...

A dozen of wand boxes exploded from their shelves and the window panel in a display shattered noisily. Ollivander and Black turned to Potter hastily and saw the boy shaking his head and breathing deeply.

"I'm sorry", he said to Ollivander. "All this talk is making me a bit anxious, I'm afraid. I think we should hurry up before anybody else comes in."

"Hum, yes, it's a good idea. Well, then, come here, we have to measure you, young man," replied Ollivander, visibly surprised.

While the usual procedure went on and they started trying wand after wand, Voldemort observed the rebel. This one has been a thorn at my side for much too long. Not that the Rebels had any impact on his regime. The only ones they make miserable are themselves, living in the dirt like they did (although I admit to partial responsibility for their poverty. I did get the Goblins to freeze their assets after all...). Most of the population don't even like them because they often broke windows and did a bit of scavenging during their "raids". The public just wanted the war to be completely over. And I, in the meanwhile, use their so-called "menace" to pass stricter regulations and give myself more control over the rest of the population. If I really wanted this group of misfits eradicated, I'm sure it could be done within a month.

"Holly, Phoenix feather, 11 inches, nice and supple." Ah, there we are at last. A stream of red and gold sparked from the wand. Sickeningly Gryffindor, Voldemort thought a bit childishly.

(extract taken from Harry Potter and the Philospher's Stone, p. 67. edits underlined)

Mr. Ollivander cried, "Oh, bravo! Yes, indeed, oh, very good. Well, well, well... how curious... how very curious... "

He put Harry's wand back into its box and wrapped it in brown paper, still muttering, "Curious... curious...

"Sorry," said Harry, "but what's curious?"

Mr. Ollivander fixed Harry with his pale stare.

"I remember every wand I've ever sold, Mr. Potter. Every single wand. It so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather is in your wand, gave another feather - just one other. It is very curious indeed that you should be destined for this wand when its brother why, its brother gave you that scar."

Harry, curiously, had visibly brightened at this admission. He looked almost eager. His godfather was watching him closely from the corner of his eye, a disapproving frown on his face and lips tightening visibly.

"Yes, thirteen-and-a-half inches. Yew. Curious indeed how these things happen. The wand chooses the wizard, remember... I think we must expect great things from you, Mr. Potter... The Dark Lord is, after all, a brilliant and powerful man.

Harry shivered and bit his lips, glanced nervously at his godfather who forced himself to adopt a falsely cheerful facial expression. Black then paid the seven galleons for the wand and made Ollivander take a vow never to reveal what happened during their visit in the shop. Ollivander vowed never to talk about it with anyone (but it didn't include showing a memory, apparently) and bowed them from his shop.

(end of extract)

The memory ended and the Dark Lord was propelled back to his office chair. He put one elbow on his worktable and brought a finger to his lips, caressing them slowly as he thought of the implications of what he had just seen.

Much has been revealed, first, about the Rebels. All these years, he thought they were standing against him either because they thought that they had a chance of defeating him or because they felt honour-bound to do what they thought was the right thing. After witnessing this scene, he was now convinced that the so-called Rebels were just bidding their time until the "Chosen One" went against him and defeated him. They have proven that when they allowed seven Galleons (a considerable sum for impoverished people) to be spent on one wand when they had to steal from time to time to make ends meet.

Does this child even realise the burden they put on him? Yes, he must know of the Rebels' expectations. You could see it in the slight hunch of his shoulders, in his penetrating gaze, in the dark shadows under his eyes. His moment of rage toward his godfather was also quite telling. It meant that they hadn't managed to make a mindless weapon out of him. There were cracks on the armour, and Voldemort would make sure to exploit them if he so needed.

And then there were the strange reactions Potter got whenever Ollivander mentioned his name. They were...positive? Interested? He would have to look again at the memory tomorrow. This called for further investigation.

Well, all in all, an instructive scene. The Dark Lord looked at the paperwork still spread on his desk and put them in a careful order before he headed to sleep.

He took off his robes with a wave of his hand and settled beneath his covers. He lied on his back and looked at the ceiling for a moment, wondering if he forgot something. Shrugging mentally, he closed his eyes and calmed his breathing.

In the seconds before he fell asleep, he remembered. He had seen Harry before, his burdened emerald eyes catching his attention in a crowd at a Victory Day procession, a couple of years ago. Everybody else had seemed so happy that his godfather and him had stuck out like a sore thumb. The child that seemed so downtrodden had gasped in surprise when he saw that the Dark Lord was looking at him. To have so much effect with only a glance had made Voldemort smile a bit.

After this last thought, the leader of the Wizarding World fell asleep, for the first time since the day of his triumph, with a smile on his lips.

The same night, far away in a high tower in Scotland, another veteran of the war was siting at his desk, looking over some paperwork that his Deputy Headmaster thought would interest him.

Slughorn had apparently found the answer to some of the potential students' invitation unorthodox enough to ask him to look over them. And, at the very bottom of the pile of concerned Muggleborns and half-bloods, was Harry Potter's reply.

Hurriedly written with a Muggle pen and with a faint speck of blood at the top left corner of the letter, as if the hand he had used to stop the parchment from rolling on itself was bleeding of a small wound. And it was this wound that caused him such a dilemma.

The paper was not folded or rumpled and had therefore not been stuffed under something else to quickly hide it from view. But it was in such a pristine state (apart from the ink and the blood), that it couldn't have been shown to other people either. It didn't pass from Potter's hands to his guardians' hands like it should have, had they been incredulous or surprised by the news. The presence of only a minimum quantity of the oil residue every hands leave on every surface they touch indicates that it was read perhaps once and then either left on a flat surface for a time, or immediately flipped on the other side where the answer is written.

The only conclusion possible at this stage was to say that the recipient of the letter knew of the existence of magic and was therefore not surprised to receive the invitation. The refusal is categorical, there are no enquiries about whether the Dark Lord would care if he was a half-blood. Potter didn't try to gauge whether he would be well received in Hogwarts, despite his past. He probably thought he would not.

If James Potter's brat knew about magic and didn't want anything to do with it, Severus couldn't care less. It was convenient for him, even. He wouldn't have to keep his foolish promise to protect Lily's son if said son wanted to live like a Muggle. But could he really let Lily's son turn his back on his heritage like that?

And the small wound caused him some concern. Could Potter be abused by his relatives?

This is getting ridiculous. I am not going to extrapolate from what is probably a paper cut that the boy has been beaten to submission and is too afraid to reach out for help! The boy is better off in the Muggle world or wherever he is hiding if that's where he wants to be.

Severus sighed in frustration. He put his elbows on the ancient desk and touched the tips of his fingers together in thought. He should inform the Dark Lord of this development. He should, but his master hadn't as much as mentioned the brat since his return. Thankfully. He still didn't know what he would do if he were given the order of finding Potter and bringing him to the Dark Lord. Therefore, he will not the be the one to throw a slicing hex at his own foot and bring up the subject of Potter's fate.

Severus looked at the pile of paperwork, pondering. Potter's letter was at the bottom completely. I am well-known for being impatient. I could very well have abandoned this useless task before reaching the last of the pile. And if the Dark Lord asks me, I will just say that, since Potter was not in the list of attendees this year for Hogwarts, he must either have refused the invitation or be dead and that this was the only information I had at my disposal. Yes, that should do nicely.

He stood up in a swift movement, his decision taken. The Potion Master then looked at the pile of parchment lying innocently on his desk. He had already sent his reply to the rest of the letters brought by Slughorn. He gathered all of them in a neat pile with a flick of his wand and threw them forcefully in the fire. He looked at the tall flame licking the sides of his fireplace. The destruction of evidence had always been his favourite part in his work as a spy.

In precise and efficient movements, he did his nightly routine and headed to bed. His last thought that night was: I hope this will be the last I hear of you, Potter.

Voilà! Tell me what you thought of it! I love writing Voldemort's POV, hehe :) He'll be even more awesome in the next chapter, you'll see!