AN
I'm remaking an old story of mine with significant changes in this iteration. I felt it was best to start anew given the depth of the changes. While the first few chapters will be fairly tame, there will be some fairly graphic violence later in the story. If you have any comments or concerns please let me know. I'll do my best to avoid many common tropes, but I likely won't be able to avoid them all. I will say if you are expecting a story about Icequeen Daphne, you are probably in the wrong place. I want this story to be a unique journey that you and I have never experienced before, so I don't want to copy common Fannon ideas. Comments and reviews aren't necessary, but if you want a way to encourage me to stop being lazy and to write, then, by all means, drop one below. I'm doing this on my own so if you see any errors, grammatical, or otherwise, please let me know, and I'll do my best to fix them. I won't be posting any more notes so I'll just finish by saying I hope you enjoy the story and leave it at that.
Edited for grammar on 11/11/22

Lucius Malfoy stalked down the halls of his storied family manor, headed towards his luxurious, silver-lined dining hall. Ornate architecture befitting of a proper Slytherin house was a cornerstone of the design of the Malfoy Manor. He had, of course, paid top galleon for the best and most noble designer to come out of the Slytherin house in the past century. When Lucius found out he was going to be the father of his next Head of House, he'd built a sanctuary to raise a modern pureblood. Young Draco was destined for greatness with the Malfoy name and the purest of pure blood flowing through his veins. His father, Abraxas, had guaranteed that with a formal marriage to secure the renowned blood of the Black family. His father had done much for the Malfoy name politically, but under Lucius's careful tending, the family wealth had grown to a new level. He'd encouraged more than a few businesses to allow him a partnership in return for protection during the first war. Draco would become head of a family with political clout and the finances with which to back up that clout.

For the past few weeks, the Malfoy family had played host to the Dark Lord as any proper pureblood family should. Currently, he had been requested by the Dark Lord for a delicate political matter as Avery had put it. As he neared the hall, Lucius straightened his robes and tightened his grip on his cane. He rapped the door twice and walked into the hall surveying the people around him cautiously. Making his way to the throne which used to be the seat for the head of the Noble Malfoy family, Lucius intoned, "You summoned for me, my lord." He knelt before the Dark Lord with his head low, staring at the ornate floor that lined his dining hall.

"Ah yes. Lucius. The time has come for my side project to be put into action." The air of the room seemed to shrivel in on itself as the high-pitched voice echoed around the massive chamber. It was not overly loud, and in fact, Lucius may have described his tone as soft, if not for the gentle reverberations of the Dark Lord's statement. Magic itself seemed to carry the voice around the room.
Gleaming red eyes stared down at Lucius as he looked up in confusion. "Side project my lord?" The moment their eyes briefly met, Lucius knew he could hold no secrets from the man who stood before him. Voldemort, of course, knew that Malfoy was more loyal to the idea of pure blood supremacy than the man himself, but that did not make the Malfoy name any less useful to the cause. Both Lucius and the Dark Lord were aware of this fact, but it did not stop Lucius from climbing the ranks in the first war.

"Yes, Lucius. My side project. For too long the people of this wizarding nation have trusted the Ministry. They have been herded like sheep by the lies of the Prophet. That is until Potter revealed our existence. Now the Ministry is rallying for war, and the people of the nation stand poised behind it. Today we will start to sow a seed of distrust among the population." Lucius could almost taste the excitement radiating off of Voldemort. "Lucius we will require a front. You along with the Ministry will lead the campaign to give the squibs magic." The ornate room seemed eerily quiet following the statement. The other death eaters lining the walls shifted slightly, but none so much was whispered. Giving these disgraces magic would be political suicide for Malfoy. He had successfully shifted his way to the head of the traditionalist faction within Wizengamot. This move would throw away those years of hard and financially costly work.

"The… squibs? My lord I…" began the head of the Malfoy family. It scared Lucius to question the Dark Lord these days, as Voldemort seemed to be less sane after his resurrection. Still, Lucius had little choice in following the orders, as any followers who left his service were hunted down and slain. He had returned to his master when called at the graveyard, and he and his family would be justly rewarded for their service. Lucius quickly slowed his breath and shook the thoughts from his mind. It would not do him well if his mind was read whilst he thought on such matters.

"Lucius I thought you knew better than to question me," sneered Voldemort. "Perhaps a lesson will help you remember why I make the decisions." With a flash, the red-eyed Dark Lord struck, "Crucio!"
White-hot pain filled the entirety of Lucius's being, stabbing him everywhere. Not a single inch of his body was spared, as he writhed on the ground. "My lord… forgive me," he gasped. "I was only... thinking of my... family." His hand tremored as he gathered himself back into a proper kneeling position. Lucius could see the whites of his knuckles grinding into his floor between the gaps of blurry vision following the curse. He knew of no one with as much proclivity or skill with the cruciatus curse as the Dark Lord. His father had, of course, punished him with the curse, but the pain of his father's cruciatus curse was just a shadow in comparison to the Dark Lord's.

Voldemort sneered down at the quivering man beneath him. "Your family will be at the forefront when we take the wizarding world by storm. You are a politically powerful man only as long as Cornelius Fudge is in office. I know you are not so blind as to not see the winds of change in public opinion. He may control the newspaper, but we have only so much time before our existence becomes public knowledge." Voldemort paused as if in thought for a brief moment before continuing, "Lucius, you will go to him, and offer him salvation, a way out of the situation in which he will find himself. Together the two of you will champion a program to give the squibs magic."

"What is the objective of providing these," Lucius paused trying to find the correct word of disdain, "... disgusting creatures with magic?" Tremors from the pain curse still ran across his body. Many years ago when he had first become a part of the Death Eaters, Lucius had been so proud of himself. Now, Lucius feared his master had delved too deep into the Dark Arts and was spiraling out of control. In the last war, the Dark Lord rarely tortured his loyal followers. These days, not even the most faithful servants, were safe from his displeasure.

There had been a time when Lucius reveled in the thought of this crusade, but these days, his strength was waning. He knew that his political capital would only be useful for a little while longer. He had never been the fighter his sister-in-law, Bellatrix, had become. His usefulness had almost run its course with the cause, and he was terrified of what would happen when he was less useful.

"These Creatures will become a powerful tool for the betterment of our cause. That is all you need to know. Amadeus has begun." High-pitched laughter shrieked out again as Lucius's world once again dissolved into pain.

Disappointment. Harry Potter was disappointed in himself. The feeling came naturally to Harry, as it had been forced upon him most of his life by his family, but this time it was different. Harry had not been able to stop Voldemort from rising from the grave. His weakness terrified him and left him ashamed. Unbidden, the feeling of helplessness while watching Cedric's lifeless body spiral backward rose to Harry's mind. Harry had done nothing, but watch. Not by choice, he knew, but he was incapable of doing anything to stop Wormtail from ripping the life away from his friend. Harry felt shame for that weakness. Harry had felt shame for a large part of his life. He was always ashamed of what the Dursleys had done to him as a child and didn't want anyone to know about his long childhood years. This shame, however, was different. It burned in his very gut, almost as if he was going to be sick on the floor. Instead of being sick, Harry was just left with a feeling of restlessness and uneasiness.

The sound of the lock sliding in place of the bedroom door barely registered to Harry. When he was younger, the latch on the cupboard slipping into place was one of his least favorite sounds. It was always followed by hours or days of isolation and hunger. There were times when the very sound of a lock made him nervous and weary these days, but presently, the sound, while grating, seemed small compared to the real problems that existed now. Harry still couldn't stop the nervous tremor in his hand at the sound, but he had bigger issues on which to focus. He stilled his hand by resting his palm calmly on the uneven chair back that sat in front of a window-facing desk in his room at Privet Drive. The desk was a mess with bits of parchment and crumpled letters, drafts of unreturned letters sent in the days following the start of his imprisonment.

Harry could see the neat, yet loopy cursive from his friend Hermione. His eyes tracked the outlines of the words, yet no comprehension came from the letters. His mind was fixated elsewhere. Voldemort. Last Harry saw him, the face of abject rage as Harry was whisked away by the navel pull of a two-way portkey. Unbidden, the memory of Tom Riddle's cruel words from the chamber of secrets sprang to his mind. "Very much alive…." That was the crux of the problem facing Harry. Just a few days prior, the murderer of his parents, the killer of thousands, the embodiment of evil had risen again, very much alive. His grip tightened on the top of the chair, the edges of the uneven wood digging in painfully to his hand. Harry paid it no mind.

Glancing sharply out the barred window decorated with drapes that hadn't been cleaned in years, Harry ground his teeth. Voldemort's resurrection brought up many emotions in Harry. Some positive, most negative. Joy, for the briefest of moments, to see his parents, even if it was in the middle of a fight with vile evil. Fear, from the general feeling of helplessness with which his brief fight with Voldemort had left him. Anguish, at the sudden loss of Cedric. Guilt for the role, he had played in bringing along Cedric. As traumatic as seeing a good friend struck down in front of him was, nothing held a candle to the burning shame that was wrenching inside Harry at this moment. The man who was responsible for the death of his parents was alive, and he was too weak to do anything about it. It hadn't even been Voldemort who had immobilized Harry before striking down Cedric. No, it had been Wormtail.

Turning from the window, Harry moved back to his lumpy bed, careful to lay down where no springs were poking through. Putting his hands behind his head, he returned his attention once again to the only window in the room, this time taking in the overcast sky. Intellectually, he knew he was exhausted, and in pain from his injuries, but in his gut, he knew that was no excuse. Wormtail wasn't even an especially powerful death eater. Everything from the stories Remus and Sirus had told him indicated Peter was a scared boy, with little to no spine. His shame at not being able to even contend with a weak wizard gnawed at his stomach painfully.

In that moment of shame, Harry vowed to become stronger. He may never match up to the sheer power and experience of Voldemort, but he was damn sure he'd be ready for Wormtail, or any other Death Eater that came his way. He may not be ready yet, but he would be the next time he came face to face with Wormtail. Righteous anger surged through Harry as he thought of the two men who had taken so much from him. Harry was determined, but that was not the issue at hand at the moment. Presently, Harry had no way of bettering himself, so he simply had no choice but to lie around and wait for the day, he could leave his prison.

Harry glanced around the room. The Dursleys had furnished the room somewhat, with an old wardrobe missing a few drawers and one door, a cabinet that didn't close properly, and of course, the single bed on which he was currently gingerly laying with springs poking through the mattress. Harry was grateful, in that it was better than his past years, but he knew that being locked in a room wasn't considered the most humane treatment. To further his frustrations, he knew after the lock slid into place earlier, he would not have a way out for a few days. He cast a furtive glance over to the bucket in the corner of the room, where he was supposed to relieve himself, during his time locked in the room.

A small patter of rain fell on the window as if to wake Harry from his thoughts. Glancing over at Hedwig sleeping in her cage with her head under her wing, he knew that he would need to become stronger. Harry had no idea what the upcoming war would look like, but if he was incapable of holding his own against someone like Peter Pettigrew, he would have little to no chance of surviving beyond the war. Harry resolved himself at that moment, as he looked upon Hedwig peacefully resting, that he would do whatever it took to protect her and his friends. He didn't know if he would be able to make much of a difference, but he was going to do his best to try.

Harry rose from the bed, standing in front of the window, he looked at his reflection. He saw the effect of his nightmares on his eyes, the hollow broken stare that looked back into his soul. For the first time in his life, Harry knew he needed help. He stood no chance of surviving the coming war if he couldn't survive his mind, but he had almost no one to turn to who would understand him. This wasn't something that a chat with Ron would solve, nor would a book from Hermione help him. He loved his friends dearly, but he was dealing with something that neither had experienced before. Whatever was left of the minimal childhood Harry had, was over. His enemies wouldn't treat him like a child, but neither would his mind. He needed to be stronger, not just for himself, but for his parents and his friends.

Sitting down at the wobbly desk that Dudley had broken with sheer mass, Harry pulled out a scrap of parchment and a quill to pen a letter to Dumbledore.

Albus Dumbledore was a very tired man. He stood over the basin of his pensive, staring at the floating memory he had watched countless times. He had, of course, requested that Harry give him the memory of the graveyard, in hopes partially that he would not have to tell the tale in excruciating detail. He'd searched for the smallest of details, some clue to help him piece together the timeline of events. The war with Tom Riddle would not be won with force or sheer numbers, but rather a long and difficult mental battle. Placing his hand on the golden rim around the cloudy water, he pulled his wand back towards the memory for one last viewing. He needed to find the detail he was missing in the scene.

Dumbledore grimaced as he watched a promising young life taken too early. He had, of course, seen this memory many times over, but it did not make it easier for the aging wizard to see such a fine young man taken far too early, especially seeing as it was taken by fear and lust for power. Dumbledore glanced furtively over at the body lying on the ground at the side of the memory, before focusing on the mystery at hand. The Regeneration Potion was old and dark magic. It was very simple magic as it took only four components. The bone of an ancestor, who in particular needed to be hated by the recipient of the potion. Tom, had long hated his muggle father, so it was clear why his father's bones were used in the ritual. The next step was the flesh of a servant, willingly given, or so the ritual text stated. In his extensive research of what had transpired this night, Dumbledore had come to learn that the flesh, while willingly given, needed to be given unknowingly out of fear. Young Peter, unfortunately, fit this description perfectly. So far the ritual was clear to the aged headmaster, as the young man viciously sliced his hand clean off with a disturbing cry of anguish. Despite the obvious pain, Peter approached the angel statue holding the subject of the memory. Intellectually, Dumbledore knew he could do nothing to stop this from happening, but he still flinched towards his wand as Pettigrew slashed Harry's arm before collecting the blood into a vial. Again this part of the ritual potion made complete sense to the headmaster, as Harry, quite obviously was a sworn enemy. He watched with dismay as Pettigrew dropped in some of the blood from the vial, causing the swirling concoction to shift violently red and start to emit a thin layer of white smoke.

Now, came the mystery, because the Regeneration Potion Ritual was created long before Tom's rise to power, Dumbledore knew the last ingredient required a functional, yet maimed body. Specifically, the body must be the body of the individual who was partaking in the ritual to restore his natural form. The ritual had been ruled unlawful at the ICW meeting of 1734 when most of the collected works of Herpo the Fowl had been put on the docket for discussion. Many of Herpo's discoveries had been of the foulest of magics known to wizarding kind, so he was given the moniker the foul, as a mark of shame upon the wizard. All of which looped back into the memory at hand. Tom should not have a body, even a maimed one, had he not dabbled into the most infamous of Herpo the Foul's magics. Herpo was a well-known soul magic practitioner, who was long thought to be the first creator of Horcruxes. Dumbledore gave an involuntary shudder at the mere thought of creating such a vessel. Killing itself was a despicable act, but the ritual that followed was one of the most horrifying and vile acts he had ever had the misfortune of reading about. Dumbledore knew Tom had created a Horcrux. That much was painfully obvious to him when he had first looked into the diary Harry had brought him during the boy's second year.

The issue Dumbledore had with his Horcrux theory, was simply that he had previously thought that Horcruxes could only be made once. Yet here was a body, no doubt fed sustenance from a vessel that housed a Horcrux. Dumbledore knew he had the scraps of one Horcrux in his office, in the diary that Harry had stabbed through with a Basilisk fang in his second year. Dumbledore had assumed after that, Voldemort had jumped from host to host as his link to the world had been destroyed. Yet here in this memory was a body created from what he knew to be a Rudimentary Body Potion. Another of Herpo's creations used the self-regeneration properties of a Horcrux to sustain and rebuild a rudimentary body of the Horcrux creator. Knowing this fact, Dumbledore came to a haunting realization. Voldemort had created more than a single Horcrux. The question now was not how, but how many.

As he exited the pensive, Dumbledore felt a new weight on his aged bones. The fight, for Mr. Potter, had just become a much more strenuous and perilous journey. As he turned towards his desk, he noticed a particularly beautiful snowy owl patiently waiting. "An owl as smart as she is beautiful I see," he whispered softly as he took the offered letter tied to her right leg. Upon the removal of the letter, the snowy owl lept quietly into the air and soared out the slightly open window overlooking the majestic black lake on the Hogwarts ground. Gently easing himself back into his comfortable chair behind his desk, Dumbledore took in the easily recognizable messy scrawl of his favorite student.

Professor,
I'm not sure where to begin, but I need to write something to someone to get things off my chest. I feel so very weak sir. I cannot shake the feeling of helplessness as I felt the curse fly past me to hit Cedric. I know I need to be better for the coming years, but I don't know where to start. I'm not sure how exactly to say this sir, but I feel as if I'm slipping, and I'm not sure what to do. I do not sleep well, and I only have time to think to myself here at Privet Drive. I feel more alone than ever, and I need to be doing something. I can't help but feel lost in all of this.
Best regards,
Harry Potter

Dumbledore shakily put down the letter. His elbows rested easily on the desk as he thought back to his youth and the demons that chased him. Clearly, young Harry was at a crucial crossroads in his development. The next few years would be defining years for the young man, and here in front of him was a plea for help. Most alarming in the letter was the obvious mental state that plagued Harry. Dumbledore knew at the end of the semester, these few weeks at Privet Drive would be the hardest weeks for young Harry to endure, yet even he with a century of teaching experience had little idea as to the mental state of the boy. Yes, he could make well-educated guesses, but without hearing it directly, guesswork was just that, guesswork. Now he knew as the young man had directly told him, and he needed to put plans into action. Long-term safety was a concern, yes, but Harry's statement in the letter alarmed the aged headmaster. Perhaps a discussion with Sirius Black was in order. Sirius had spent the better part of the last year asking to adopt Harry into the Black family. Not that he had anything to do with the process, but Sirius needed the Order's protection to sneak into the Ministry, and of course, Mr. Potter would have to be protected as well now. Allowing the adoption to happen had its pros and cons, most namely that the blood wards which had long protected the Dursley household would most assuredly fall upon completion of the process.

Dumbledore knew the environment at Privet Drive was strenuous at best, and sending Harry back after the school year was the worst day of the year every year. He had little choice when it came to the wards. They were without a doubt the most powerful he could erect without completely disturbing the day-to-day life of the family. But perhaps it was time to move on from the idea of Harry at Privet Drive every summer and move to a more practical safety arrangement. Sirius had, of course, allowed The Order to take up residence in his family home. There was of course also the Ancestral Home of the Blacks, which had significant safety measures. It would ensure that Harry remained protected, but would also allow Dumbledore to closely monitor Harry at this crucial time. Given how the ministry monitored passive magic, there was the potential that Harry could even learn something during this new arrangement. Dumbledore waved his hand and slid open a drawer on his desk and floated a small scrap of parchment up to the surface. He had a few important letters to write before he retired for the night.

Harry Potter jumped up from his lumpy mattress as a flash of firey light permeated through his entire room. Drawing his wand and spinning to the location of the flash, Harry was surprised to see Fawkes perched regally atop Hedwig's now vacant cage. Upon further inspection, Harry noticed a letter in the phoenix's claws. Stroking Fawkes' feathers, Harry took the offered letter and absentmindedly cooed to Fawkes. Fawkes let out a trill that made Harry think of hope for the future. Harry absently stared out of his window as he unfurled the curled letter before glancing at the loopy handwriting strewn on the missive.

Harry,
I first want to reiterate that you are not alone in this endeavor. There have been many times in my extensive life, where I thought I was stuck fixing a problem by myself only to have help come from the most unlikely of places. For example, a small, unassuming second-year boy defying all odds, and besting a class XXXXX beast with a mere sword. Now since we are not having this discussion in person, I'd very much like to tell you I would be looking at you fairly pointedly at this moment.

With that said, I'd like to tell you that even professors and headmasters make mistakes. I myself must confess to having made such a mistake not a week ago, sending you back to the Dursley's residence given what just happened at the end of the year. I must ask for a few days to rectify this mistake, as I must finish protections and plans before you are to leave the Dursleys. In just a few days' time, I will come to take you away from Privet Drive forever. I must yet again implore you to do more than should be asked of you, and give me just a few days.

Judging from the tone of your letter, I got the impression you'd very much like to prepare for the coming times, and I applaud you for the notation. I just want you to know I'm working on this as well, and hopefully, we can knock out two chasers with one bludger so to speak. In the meantime, I'd like to remind you that very few wizards are physically prepared for fights, myself included. While any magical practice may be out of the question at Privet Drive, perhaps some good old-fashioned mundane exercises would be an appropriate start to a journey. I must say, I do hope this letter finds you well, Mr. Potter. There are a great many of us who care for you deeply.

Regards,
Albus

Harry gently placed the letter down on the desk and glanced at the perch from which Fawkes had now vanished. This letter was possibly the best response he'd ever gotten in return for his yearly plea to not be left with the Dursleys. In just a few days, he'd be leaving the Dursleys forever and never coming back. The idea appealed to him on a very basic level. There was little love lost between himself and the Dursleys, but a small part of him couldn't help but feel a little sad at leaving the house forever. There'd always been some part of him that always tried to go the extra mile in hopes that he could change the way they felt about him. Maybe if he'd done a few more chores better, or tended the garden slightly better, they would have loved him. Given the fact that he was leaving, he'd never complete that small desire. While a large part of him couldn't care less, that very small part of Harry felt a small amount of sorrow.

Glancing back at the letter, Harry couldn't help but feel happy about potentially seeing Sirius again. Sirius was the only adult in his life who wanted nothing from Harry besides happiness. Everyone else has something to gain or some angle. Not that that was necessarily a bad thing, but it was a truth Harry had come to accept. It went both ways mostly. Almost everyone he interacted with, he interacted in a way to get something from them as well. McGonagall, he treated with respect, partially because the aged professor deserved the respect, but also because he didn't want to be the subject of her disappointment. He desired approval from his professor, so it was only natural that she wanted something back from him with respect.

Shaking his head, Harry returned his thoughts to the task at hand. He'd pack later, but he wanted to get started on his task given by Professor Dumbledore. Harry went to his broken wardrobe and pulled out the worn-out trainers. Sliding them onto his feet, Harry felt a renewed sense of energy for the coming years. Today, was the day he started on the journey to defeat Voldemort. Today, he had a purpose. Today, he had a goal.