The Prologue
March 20, 13 years after Godric's Hollow
"Never a dull day," a fourteen-year-old boy muttered as he caught himself in a three-point stance.
As always when he apparated — or teleported as the non-magical muggles thought of it — he held his 14-inch, ivory-white wand just in front of him at eye level. Extended forward to channel offensive magic, but ready also to project a protective shield.
A task the wand sometimes undertook of its own violation!
But neither the wand nor its wizard master sensed any threats in the surrounding area. And so, the dark-brown haired wizard rose to his five-foot-seven height and cast an azure gaze over his shadowy surroundings. Yet again, he silently applauded himself for undertaking the Potter family's eye transfiguration practices at a young age instead of waiting till his eyes "fully matured."
Unfortunately, his premium vision told him nothing more than where he was — the graveyard section of the vast Riddle estate. All that told him was that he had been summoned for a private meeting with the most powerful wizard in the world. But he already knew that when a simple trophy from a school tournament instantly transported him from the Scottish Highlands to northern England.
"What now, Harry," the last Potter muttered to himself as he centered himself.
Harry thought he was ready for this day. In fact, for years he had eagerly anticipated the next time he would meet Lord Voldemort face to face.
Yes, this was the wizard who murdered parents, led a blood-purist revolution that killed so many more wizards than it did muggles, and was partially responsible for Harry being raised as the slave of a magic-hating muggle family for a decade. But when Harry returned to the wizarding world he belonged in, it was none other than Lord Voldemort who taught him how to use his powers and maximize his tremendous talent in the wizard arts.
Most importantly, Lord Voldemort taught Harry to think for himself. To guard himself against following the path of Albus Dumbledore, a great wizard who surrendered his independence to blundering bureaucrats. To reject status quos that only harmed the wizarding world in the long term, such as the galleon and genealogy obsessed orthodoxy that dominated the Slytherin House of the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry when Harry joined as an eleven year-old. To build a coalition, both of friends and allies, based more on interpersonal loyalty and commitment than vague ideological goals — for the Dark Lord had learned the pitfalls of the latter approach first hand. And ultimately, to pursue a vision for the wizarding world without fear and self-imposed limitation.
Harry still at times marveled at the liberal approach Lord Voldemort had taken in tutoring him. But they both were closer to clinching their aspirations then they would have been otherwise. If either the Dark Lord or Harry had chosen to hold a grudge over their Godric's Hollow encounter thirteen Halloweens ago, Harry would be living as a hapless lamb raised for slaughter and Lord Voldemort would still be depending on the likes of Lucius Malfoy to enact his plans.
They were both in a much better place.
Returning his full focus to the present, Harry raised his tongue to the roof of his mouth to quietly hissss. While a meaningless action in and of itself, Harry used it as a "cheat" to quickly connect to the Parselmagic only he and Lord Voldemort harnessed. For the Dark Lord had imprinted this unique sphere of sorcery over the entire Riddle estate in the form of an eerie green fog, encumbering all those unconnected to the Gaunt dynasty's gift.
Harry felt his internal energies twist and coil as he entered a serpentine framework, mentally and magically. His connection to the flow of magic about him shifted from a broad aura to a network of tendrils slithering outward. Tendrils that immediately synced with the sorcery guarding the estate, giving him a pathway to instantly transport himself…
To the threshold of the mansion atop the hill.
Sensing no threat about him, Harry pressed his left hand and magical signature against the great door before him. The sorcery of his mentor slithered through his entire being, leaving no speck of his mind or soul untouched. An eyeblink later, the door opened before him — admitting him in satisfaction or indulgence.
Harry felt a wave of trepidation rush through him as he beheld the shadows that lay within. Like the fog outside, the darkness before Harry was a physical manifestation of Gaunt magics. But instead of the serpentine aura of the outdoor grounds, Harry felt the chilly maw of death sorcery.
He shuddered as if a blizzard gale hit his naked body.
Take commendation in the fact you perceive the nature of the sorcery, a familiar voice whispered from within Harry. But the presence retreated just as Harry reached toward it, clearly uninterested in being of any further assistance at this critical juncture.
Harry took in a deep breath, and then stepped inside.
The door slammed shut behind him, suddenly plunging Harry into a world of darkness.
Harry strode forward, relying on serpentine soul magic, awareness projection and his own connection to death magics to guide his movements. Fortunately, the affluent dark lord kept his home sparsely decorated, so Harry did not suffer the embarrassment of tripping over a couch.
"Harry…killed…be…" a voice seemed to whisper.
"What?" Harry called out into the darkness. He knew the magic around him to be thick enough to manifest figments of his imagination, but one thing he learned over the years was to confront whatever lay underneath head on — to not let it fester.
"Harry Potter has killed Dobby!" the voice repeated in a wail — the exact wail of that deluded elf.
Harry closed his eyes and searched his soul for the imprint made by his killing of the crazed creature. Sure enough, a very faint leak of magic seemed to be flowing from the scar into the space about him to form a projection of Dobby as Harry knew him.
"I thought you were Lucius' assassin," Harry huffed, deciding to entertain "Dobby."
"Dobby tried to save Harry Potter! But Harry Potter killed Dobby!" the unappeased shade howled.
"If I could go back, I wouldn't kill you. But all the embarrassments and near-death experiences you put me through left me a bit on edge," Harry defended himself. "You were trying to book me an extended stay at St. Mungo's, for heaven's sake!"
"Harry Potter killed Dobby!"
"You nearly wrecked my relationship with my best mate!" Harry retorted.
"HARRY POTTER KILLED DOBBY!"
"I can't change that!" Harry yelled back. "What do you want! You're dead!"
A specter of the droopy-eared elf manifested in front of Harry. The young wizard tightened his grip on his wand, half expecting the pseudo-spirit to lunge at him. But instead, the spirit said…
"Dobby still wants to save Harry Potter."
"What?" Harry murmured. He then shook his head.
"Wait a minute, you're not real," Harry dismissed. "You're a projection here to test my commitment. I made my decision years ago."
"I'm sorry for how you and your fellows are treated — I really am," he continued in a softer tone. "You're magical, and all the hate and prejudice and division in between us is why we hide like rats from the muggles. And I get why you hate Lord Voldemort and why you prefer Dumbledore. But… Dumbledore isn't doing anything for you. Things are just as they were before the insurrection. And your complete loyalty is expected just because Dumbledore and his political circle aren't the Death Eaters."
Harry briefly wondered if he was even talking to Dobby, or if he was voicing the words he so desperately wanted to say to his muggleborn friends.
"You know…Lord Voldemort doesn't actually care about blood hierarchies," Harry continued. "He treated the werewolves and the vampires and all the so-called 'half-breeds' better than general wizarding society did—does. Now, the rallying cry for his movement was horrible. Muggleborns are precious — I actually think they're the most precious among us. And the Death Eaters' hatred of them is disgusting, it's idiotic, and it would have led to the destruction of the wizarding society they claimed they were fighting to protect."
"But Lord Voldemort was using the bitterness brewing in pureblood communities after Grindelwald's revolution failed," Harry continued. "Grindelwald's defeat showed that sadly, before we can take on the real enemy, we have to get the current order of bureaucrats out of the way. And the idea that muggleborns sabotaged Grindelwald and wizard supremacy was the only sentiment powerful enough to create a revolution…at that time. Things are different, and Lord Voldemort understands that."
Dobby's shade looked at him disbelievingly. In fact…it almost seemed to give him a look of pity.
"I'm not a blood purist," Harry insisted. "You know I don't think the fact I'm a Potter, a Gryffindor, a Peverell, a you-name-it gives me any more value than a first generation wizard."
"Or another magical being," he added as he remembered his precise audience.
"Dobby" gave him a half-inquisitive, half-accusatory stare.
"Lord Voldemort is not after a war," Harry continued his defense. "He just wants to provide a change in leadership and philosophy. It's Dumbledore and his so-called 'Order of the Phoenix' that want the war. That will throw every last member of magickind they can get to fight at the immortal — yes, immortal — Dark Lord."
"Harry Potter has the power to vanquish the Dark Lord."
"Trelawny's a nutter," Harry scoffed. "I had to teach Ron how to use his gift. Sybill never even realized she had an actual seer in the class!"
"Harry Potter has the power to vanquish the Dark Lord."
"What power have I discovered in four years that Dumbledore hasn't in four hundred?" Harry rejected in exasperation — and with a marginal exaggeration.
"The Dark Lord marked him as his equal, he who was born as the seventh month died," "Dobby" insisted.
"In what world am I the equal of Lord Voldemort?" Harry dismissed. "He's a master of every form of magic. I'm not even the best at everything at Hogwarts — all of my friends are better than me at something. He was better than every student at everything at my age. Randolph Lestrange? Goldwin Avery? Palomydes Nott? He made them. And he made me."
Harry meant every word of that. Even beyond the tutelage Lord Voldemort had granted him, Harry freely admitted that the scar, the powers, and the "mark of destiny" he received from the Dark Lord had given him chances to prove his worth in ways he never would have received otherwise. In another life, he would have been raised as a sheltered heir of the Potter family, possibly putting as much stock in heirlooms and inherited wealth as he did in magical power and prowess. His ancestor's hat would have never sorted him into Slytherin, and he thus would have been deprived of the tests that had forged him into a great wizard.
"Harry Potter is making a grave mistake," "Dobby" attempted.
"Enough!" Harry snapped at the construct — or projection from his own imagination, he no longer cared for the difference.
He converted his frustration into rage, and the rage into a fire. Hissing, Harry exhaled the flame in the form of a mighty cobra that sought out his enemy and destroyed it with prejudice.
"AGGHHHH!" "Dobby" screamed as he once again burnt to nothing.
Understanding the might of the fire he conjured, Harry extended his wand so as to recall it. But the magics of the mansion beat him to it and simply absorbed the flame into the darkness.
Everytime Harry thought he comprehended Lord Voldemort's power, he was always proven wrong. Particularly considering the Dark Lord did not possess his wand.
Harry's mind focused on his left thigh at that moment — his current and most frequent storage place for the Dark Lord's bone-like yew wand. He had used it to contact the lord over the years, but he wondered if it would be considered "cheating" if he attempted to use it now to find Lord Voldemort within the mansion.
Then again, perhaps that would be another part of the test.
Harry dropped his trousers and flicked his own wand to create an incision along the underside of his thigh. Calling Lord Voldemort's wand to his left hand, Harry cleansed the wand of blood with a single shake before channeling magic through his own wand to sew his wound and redress himself.
The young wizard then placed his faithful aspen wand into his holster before holding Lord Voldemort's wand with both hands and focusing.
Teasing flashes of his mentor's location raced through his senses, which Harry trained on his scar to use as an additional focal point. But sadly, the far more powerful dark lord eluded him. Except…
"Dammit!" Harry cussed as he realized by expanding his senses outward, he completely missed the wisp of power wrapping about the 15-inch wand in his hands. The spell it then channeled through the wand, though non-verbal, was one Harry recognized instantly.
For he many-a-time considered casting that very same spell from that very same wand.
Priori Kedavra Duo
Through their bond, Harry could sense strands of amusement flicker from Lord Voldemort. But before he could dwell on it further, two ethereal streaks of blue-white light sprang up from the wand, circled the dark air, and landed in human shape before him.
A moment of cowardice caused Harry to consider apparating away, but he found himself unable. So instead, he closed his eyes and clung onto the silence. He reveled in every last fraction of a second, wishing to spread it into eternity…
"Harry," Lily Potter's soul-remnant spoke.
Alas.
Unlike "Dobby," a mere construct created by the Dark Lord to test Harry, the shades that stood before the young wizard now were very real soul fragments of his parents — ripped away when they sacrificed themselves to save him from Lord Voldemort. The very wizard he swore his utmost loyalty to.
Harry opened his eyes to face them. It was the least he could do — and maybe the most.
Yet instead of the anger he expected and deserved, he saw only tenderness, compassion and sadness in his mother's azure eyes. An expression matched in his father's steel-blue.
"You don't have to do this, son," James Potter implored.
Straight to business then. But phrased much more kindly – or diplomatically? – than Harry expected.
Harry took a deep breath and proceeded with the conversation he both long awaited and dreaded.
"D-Dumbledore's plan won't work," Harry started shakily but sincerely. "Let's say I die – cast through the Veil for argument's sake so L–Voldemort can't just bring me back through our bond. Where are the other horcruxes? How many are there? How many is it possible to make? How do you know he won't make more once he senses the destruction of one? How do you know he can't move one of his soul fragments from one object to another? Koschei the Immortal could do that – supposedly."
"And this of course all hinges on killing Voldemort," Harry continued. "Dumbledore didn't confront him for thirteen years – in fact, Voldemort was planning on going after him before he, well…"
Harry gestured at his mother.
"You were the only one who beat him!" Harry passionately called out the fire-haired witch before him. "And he's back, better than ever! Didn't need any help!"
Both of his parents gave him knowing looks at that statement.
"He would have done it with or without me," Harry rationalized. "And you know what…it's b-better this way. We helped…benefited each other at our lowest points. And it means I'm more valuable than Lucius and his cronies. Things can change, for the better. Muggleborns will no longer be persecuted. If they are, I will be the first to raise my wand!"
"After he has everything he needs from you?" his father asked with a sad smile.
"He's not a blood purist, not truly," Harry insisted. "You…Dumbledore told you his birth name, didn't he?"
"It makes him even worse," his mother said. "You know this to be true."
"And what has Dumbledore and the Order of the Phoenix done for muggleborns?" Harry defended his choices. "I've done more than all of them combined!"
His parents fixed a look of dramatic incredulity on him.
"Aaand…I'm saving them from a war that could wipe them out!" Harry exclaimed. "As well as all my friends who've been told by their parents and professors to hurl themselves into the path of Lord – yes Lord – Voldemort's killing curses!"
A second passed before Harry realized just how poor in taste his rant was.
"We died fighting for what we believed in," his mother replied. "Because even though 'Lord' Voldemort thrice offered us high positions in his ranks…"
Harry's eyebrows shot up at that revelation.
"We would have rather died than see Hogwarts converted into his bootcamp," his father finished.
"Harry…you love that place," his mother entreated. "You're not like the Slytherins of our day. I dare say you've represented your house better than anyone has in a long time."
"A very long time," his father added dryly.
"Why would you throw it all away, throw away Wizarding Britain, the wizarding world, to the very worst of our kind?" his mother implored.
"'Our kind' won't last much longer with the muggles controlling the world," Harry answered, the heart of the matter finally having been reached. "They're burning our planet to the ground, but not before they find us and hunt every last one of us down. They'll slaughter us, just because we're different. Because we're better."
His parents gazed at him sadly.
"So you embrace muggleborns, but despise their families?" his father challenged.
"We're their family, and we leave them behind!" Harry shouted. "Abandon them to a world that hates them, that will kill them the second they're discovered, and the Ministry does not give a thestral's tail hair!"
"Are you speaking for them, or for yourself?" his mother asked.
"My experiences aren't unique," Harry retorted. "If they were, there wouldn't be a Lord Voldemort."
"So eight billion people deserve to be enslaved, subjugated or killed?" his father questioned.
"They're beneath us," Harry growled.
"And when your fellow wizards – members of your 'family' – resist your plan, what do you intend to do?" his mother asked.
"I…well…it will be for the greater good. They'll understand eventually," Harry finished with bravado.
"Or are you counting on Voldemort to be too frightening a dictator for any resistance?" his father pressed.
"I…I'm trying to do what's best for my friends and for all wizards," Harry justified. "Maybe I'm making some dark decisions. Maybe some wrong decisions. But whatever I do, it's better than following Dumbledore. He'll get my friends killed, one way or another."
"Why are you so valuable to Voldemort?" his mother suddenly asked.
"I prove myself," Harry answered quickly. But he thought more about it than he cared to. Wondered…
"What does a fourteen year old boy – a very talented boy, but fourteen all the same – have that none – not one – of Voldemort's followers have ever had?" his father asked.
"I'm not so sure about the 'ever' –" Harry started.
"You were the first person he sought out once he claimed a body, the one he gambled on revealing himself to," his mother continued. "He could have gone to the fully-trained, ready-to-grovel Death Eaters. He could have gone to their children. But he chose you. Why?"
"It doesn't matter," Harry shook his head.
"I think you know that couldn't be further from the truth," his father asserted. "I think you know, deep down, what sets you apart from any wizard Voldemort knows of."
"I don't have my mother's power," Harry rejected as he turned around in a feeble attempt to end the conversation.
"Power isn't about what you can bend or conjure with a wand," his mother said from in front of him.
"Or without," his father added. "What?" he asked when the specter of his wife gave him a look. "Our boy's pretty good without a wand too!"
"True power," Harry's mother continued after silencing her husband with a glare. "Comes from the heart. Tell me, if you could choose to sacrifice half of your magic, or half of your friends…"
"Half of my magic," Harry answered without hesitation. "More even."
"And everyone who knows you knows what you value most," his father rejoined the conversation. "Your friends know you would go to the ends of the earth for them, and they would do the same. Voldemort…well…we all know where hismost trusted followers went in his time of need."
"Birds of a feather flock together," Harry's mother stated. "The followers Voldemort has attracted thus far are but reflections of himself. If he is to have any hope of a lasting victory, he needs someone who possesses a power he knows not."
"Love…" Harry realized.
"You are more powerful than him, son," his father insisted. "You would give him far more than he can give you. Can't you see?"
"I…I…" Harry murmured as for the first time in a while, true doubt cracked through him.
Perhaps an hour passed. Perhaps a whole day. Or perhaps just a minute. But Harry finally collected an answer.
"This isn't about me," Harry stated firmly.
His parents looked upon him mournfully. The sight stung Harry's eyes, and wrestled free a tear.
Yet it only served to strengthen his resolve.
"I'm sorry," Harry whispered. "But I'm not going back."
Suddenly, the darkness itself attacked the specters of James and Lily Potter. Cries of pain rocked the house as the power devoured the soul remnants in a display that made a Dementor's kiss seem mundane.
But Harry watched the nightmarish display from beginning to end. They, even though only mere slivers of his parents' departed souls, deserved that much.
"Well done, Harry," a majestic voice emanated from around him.
Harry dropped to a knee just as the darkest of the shadows before him coalesced into a manifestation of Lord Voldemort in all his original glory.
Harry barely held in a gasp as for the first time since Godric's Hollow, he beheld his mentor in his true form. With features of surpassing handsomeness and eyes that radiated matchless power.
"Come my boy, you are not truly surprised to see Lord Voldemort returned to his rightful splendor?" the Dark Lord chided gently.
"I…I'm simply overwhelmed by the moment," Harry answered.
"A long-awaited reunion for us both," the Dark Lord murmured. "You have become as strong and powerful as I hoped in our time apart."
"T-thank you," Harry stammered, flattered by the praise.
"And this time, you hold marks of death," Lord Voldemort continued. "Fresh ones too. I can assume the tournament referees would give you more grief than glory for your victory?"
Harry did not waste his mentor's time by answering the rhetorical question, and instead asked what had long been on his mind.
"Am I ready to join your ranks?"
"Are you?" the question returned.
"Yes," Harry answered resolutely.
"So young. Such talent. Such confidence. So much promise," the Dark Lord mulled. "Yes, yes, I think you are."
After a minute of silence, Harry extended his left arm, underside-up, when no further words came from his mentor.
"Ah, yes," Lord Voldemort murmured as if lost in thought. "Yet perhaps too mundane for the greatest of my servants."
The Dark Lord extended his wand – which Harry numbly realized must have been apparated out of his hand into its true owner's – and traced it over the lightning-shaped scar that distinguished Harry's forehead from any other's.
"You kept it well," Lord Voldemort approved of Harry's stewardship of the yew wand. "And cleansed it of that oaf's odor to boot. Lord Voldemort shall not forget such a service."
Harry nodded with respect and humility.
"Now, we must symbolize your supremacy over my Death Eaters," the Dark Lord continued. "And demonstrate how together, we have conquered death."
For the first time ever, the bonds of magic within Harry's scar writhed and shifted. Harry amazingly felt his very skin contort – no, close! Close!
Relief rushed through Harry's body as the long-open festering wound disturbed him no longer.
But that proved just the beginning. The residual killing-curse magic formerly bound to his scar briefly raced through Harry's soul. Not to harm him, but to seek out another open-wound within.
The connection made, the magic raced back to Harry's forehead and hissed. A very familiar, dearly missed hiss.
"How?" Harry gasped as a tattoo of a black-and-flame-colored king cobra materialized in the space between his hairline and right-eyebrow, before extending behind his eyeball to slither down part of his cheek.
"I am the flight from death," Lord Voldemort answered simply.
Harry gingerly stroked his new tattoo, the reborn form of a friend departed too soon. Overcome with emotion, it took Harry nearly ten seconds to remember to thank his mentor – or master, as he now was.
"You are most welcome," the Dark Lord answered. "Now rise."
Upon rising, Harry realized that along with sentimental value, his tattoo came with at least all the standard capabilities of a Dark Mark – as evidenced by his new black robes.
"Now, while Dumbledore and his order are distracted with their search for you – and me by extension – we must strike at Azkaban," the Dark Lord dictated as he hovered toward the doors. "I trust you are prepared?"
"As I will ever be," Harry answered determinedly as he followed his master to the green-lit premises outside.
"Then hold tight," Lord Voldemort commanded as he extended his shadowy-robes to wrap around Harry. "For now, we reclaim the Citadel of Gaunt!"
As the glacial power of the Dark Lord enveloped him, drawing him in til he became one with the darkness, Harry found memories long forgotten leap from the shadows of his own mind. Memories of a lifetime ago. A life in which he held no power, until a giant burst through his door and told him…