Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, or House of the Dragon. Both IPs are owned by JK Rowling and George R. R. Martin, respectively.
AU. Harry Potter's existence intertwines with that of a young, illegitimate prince in the treacherous realm of Westeros. Caught in a labyrinth of political schemes, forbidden love, and age-old prophecies, Harry navigates a royal court rife with envy, ambition, and hidden dangers. Will Harry's shadowy history be the downfall of Westeros, or could he emerge as its unlikely savior?
Bound by Fire and Blood
Prologue: Mistress Death
The Dark Lord moved like a wraith, weaving through the shadows of the opulent estate. His presence was an enigma, masked from all senses, as if the very air refused to acknowledge him.
He entered a grand dining room where a family was in the midst of a seemingly peaceful dinner. The atmosphere changed in an instant. The six-foot-tall figure emerged from the darkness, releasing a magical aura so potent it was almost palpable. The family members turned ashen, their faces etched with shock and dread.
The Dark Lord was none other than Harry Potter, the once 'savior of the wizarding world.'
"Good evening," Harry greeted, his voice dripping with a malevolence that belied his polite words. He took a seat at the other end of the table, directly across from the man of the house, who was revealed to be none other than Tom Riddle, the previous Dark Lord, Voldemort.
Harry's eyes were cold, almost lifeless, as he stared at Tom. The man had not only killed his parents but had also taken away his wife and daughter in the final days of the last war. Somehow, Voldemort had survived yet again, living a humble life as a businessman in Germany under an alias.
"Do your children speak English?" Harry asked in perfect German.
"No," Voldemort replied, his voice tinged with caution.
"Then let us converse in English," Harry said, pointing his wand at the lavish spread on the table. "Go on, finish your meal. Don't mind me."
Harry's expression remained cold, a veneer of politeness masking his underlying menace. Voldemort's wife and children stared at their plates, too terrified to meet the eyes of the man holding them at wand-point.
"For over fifty years, you've killed or had others kill in your name," Harry said, his voice low and icy. "And yet here you dine. Tonight should be no different. Finish your meals."
Voldemort's wife whimpered softly. She knew who her husband was, who he had been before their marriage. This was her worst nightmare come to life.
"Go on, boys. Finish your food," Voldemort urged, attempting to maintain a brave face for his family. But inside, he was shaken. Despite all his precautions, he was at Harry's mercy.
"You are a face I wished never to see again, Harry. How did you find me?" Voldemort asked, his fingers steepled on the table, betraying a hint of stress.
Harry didn't answer. He simply stared at Tom; his wand pointed at the older man's chest.
"Your wife, Granger, would she be proud of what you've become?" Voldemort pressed.
"Don't forget about my daughter," Harry clarified, his voice tinged with raw pain that even his impressive Occlumency couldn't mask.
"I was a different man then, Mr. Potter. Voldemort is dead, buried in the past. I wish no further quarrel with you," Voldemort said, almost pleading.
"But I have a quarrel with you," Harry leaned forward, locking eyes with Tom.
The tension in the room was palpable. Voldemort realized that Harry could not be bargained with. Their history was too immense, too filled with tragedy.
"Not in front of my boys," Voldemort finally said, his voice tinged with desperation. "Please."
Harry leaned back in his chair. "Time to meet Mistress Death, as I have."
In a matter of seconds, Harry unleashed the Killing Curse non-verbally, targeting Voldemort's wife and children. Their lifeless bodies fell to the floor with three distinct thuds.
Voldemort was paralyzed with horror, his eyes wide, his mouth agape. His world had shattered in an instant.
Harry sighed, almost cathartically. He wished he could savor Voldemort's pain, but all he saw was a reflection of his own loss, his own suffering.
Suppressing any lingering emotions of pity, Harry aimed his wand at Voldemort. A bludgeon hex burst forth, blowing a fist-sized hole through Tom's chest. Before the body could hit the floor, two more hexes struck, targeting the head and neck. Blood and gore splattered everywhere.
AN: As some of you may notice, this short scene is almost beat for beat from my favorite movies of all time. Hope you all enjoy the story going forward.