It had been nearly a week since Zander had gone to his lord, the Dark Lord Voldemort, with a prophecy on his lips.
Zander was a Dodonus in both blood and magic and as such he had inherited the gift that had once been blessed unto their line by an unnamed God. There were many in the wizarding world who thought the Dodonus to be a family of charlatan bards; those who believed this did not understand the gift that their family had been blessed with, for unlike others, the Dodonus were not seers. They had no ‘sight’, instead words flowed through them as if it were water, as if it were poetry. No, the Dodonus weren’t seers, they were prophets, mouth pieces for the Gods. Those who did understand knew that a prophecy told by a Dodnus was greater than one told by any other, for the Dodonus’ spoke not only of the future to be but of the futures that could be.
It had been nearly a week since Zander had gone to his lord with a prophecy and Dodonus still had no idea what it was that he had spoken. He never remembered the experiences after they happened, so that wasn’t odd in itself, even seers tended to forget their own prophecies. It was the reason that his ancestor, and then every Dodonus after, had kept an ever-expanding journal and self-dictating quills on them at all times.
Zander had learned the signs of his gift at a young age and by now he knew when the trance was approaching. He had felt it, strong and prompting this time. Zander had felt a pull in his core and knew that he required a witness and who that witness needed to be; as if this wasn’t a simple prophecy but a message from the Gods. It was as if the words had been holding off for his arrival, as the moment he fell before the feet of his Lord the words began to fall from his lips.
Zander did not remember what he said, but he knew that it had been impactful on his Lord. After awakening from his trance the Dark Lord had demanded that he hand over his only dictation of the prophecy. Zander had, of course, complied immediately, and so he never got to witness the words that he himself delivered.
It had been five and a half days and the Dark Lord had been locked in his study ever since. While the lower ranking Death Eaters hadn’t seemed to notice anything off yet, the inner circle was starting to grow concerned. No one had seen the Dark Lord since he had called for Zander only a day or so after the prophecy was delivered.
His Lord had asked Zander how exactly his gift worked and Zander had explained what was known and what was speculated. Most seers only spoke of one future but that was not the future that had to be. While the Fates and Destiny were in a constant battle for dominion over the mortals, neither side would ever have total control, for the mortals would retain their free will. The future would always be shaped by the choices of those at the crux.
The Dark Lord had seemed both pleased and troubled at those words. Zander had no doubt in his mind that his Lord was one of those at the crux. No, his Lord was the crux, and he had both the will and might to make anything Be, Zander was sure. If only he knew what was said in the prophecy that he had delivered, what future weighed so heavy on his Lord.
***
It had been nearly a week since the Dark Lord Voldemort had locked himself in his study, allowing no one to enter, save his house-elves. It had been five and a half days straight of research and contemplation.
Lord Voldemort had first been annoyed when his study door had been flung open days ago, by what he assumed to be an uncouth follower of his. He was then intrigued as the prophet fell at the lord's feet and began his oration. Afterwards, the Dark Lord hadn’t known what to feel. Lord Voldemort wasn’t one to ruminate on his feelings or to question his decisions, but question and ruminate is exactly what he did.
He had run over the words in his mind a thousand times and still struggled to decipher their exact meaning. There was a reason it was said that a prophecy couldn’t be properly interpreted until after it came to fruition. Lord Voldemort held no illusions that he wasn’t an intelligent man, he knew if anyone were to properly interpret prophecy it would be him, especially one so clearly about himself. He read every book he had on prophecy and seers and had called for Dodonus when he required answers that his books could not provide.
It had been days and the Dark Lord had finally come to a decision about how he was going to interpret Dodonus’ prophecy. As he saw it, there were two paths that lay before him now. There was a path of Death and despair, and then there was a path of life, legacy, prosperity. It was a clear decision which path the Dark Lord would take, but to figure out which path was which was another matter. To figure out which decisions he was making that would lead him towards either outcome.
There were a couple of lines that he still hadn’t been sure of by the end of his dissection. Dodonus had spoken of a ‘legacy bought through a prize of war’; it was an intriguing notion, though the Dark Lord wasn’t sure what the Light would have in their possession that would significantly aid in his conquest and reign of Albion.
There had also been a line about ‘death for immortals and life for the vanquished’ and one about the ‘death of the half is the death of the whole’. He hadn’t been sure if that was talk about his horcruxes or not, but Voldemort had made sure to confiscate the prophecy from Dodonus before he could make his own assumptions. He didn’t like the sound of ‘death for immortals’, as he himself was an immortal. And did the ‘death of the half being the death of the whole’ mean that destroying one of his horcruxes would kill him? That wasn’t the way that they were supposed to work, though he obviously hadn’t done any tests to check.
As it was, for the time being the Dark Lord was to be stuck in a waiting game. It was the Dark Lord Voldemort versus the Fates, or maybe Destiny, he wasn’t exactly sure which. He was stuck in a sort of mental limbo until an opportunity to alter the tides of the future arose.
Until then, he knew what he would be doing.
***
It had been weeks since Dodonus had gone to Lord Voldemort with the prophecy and the daily lives in the Dark had once again returned to normal. Everyone in the inner circle acted as if that one week had never happened, while those in the outer circles remained ignorant all together. There were a few who were closest to the Lord who had heard a whisper of ‘prophecy’, though none were foolish enough to dig deeper than a dusting.
Much had returned to normal but a few people seemed to notice a shift in their Lord’s focus. There hadn’t been any sort of raids on their part in months and the Dark Lord had started to send a few of his most talented followers off on secret missions.
Things had grown relatively quiet amongst the Dark when the Dark Lord was once again accosted by one of his own with a prophecy of his future. This prophecy was delivered in a much different fashion than the first.
The Snape boy, a young potions apprentice with promise, had overheard the Trelawny drunkard going into a trance in front of Dumbledore in the Hogshead. The boy had managed to disillusion himself and hear the entire prophecy before he managed to get away just before being caught by Aberforth Dumbledore.
The Dark Lord collected the boy’s memory before placing them in his pensieve to review. When he left the pensieve Lord Voldemort was much calmer than he knew he would have been just weeks before .
But now his greatest question had been answered. This must be the child he was to acquire, only a child that had the potential to become his equal could possibly become his heir. A ward of war, a child won as a prize in battle. He would find the child, kill the parents if he must, and perform the blood adoption. As long as the child was young enough the blood adoption would take, and since his babe wasn’t even born yet, they had plenty of time. Now to find out who in the wizarding world was expecting for around that time…
***
The Potters and the Longbottoms.
He decided on the Potters because it just felt right and Voldemort wasn’t one to ignore his own instincts. He had agreed that the Lestranges could take the Longbottom child if everything worked out for himself with the Potter child first. If not, he wanted Longbottom as a possible backup.
Severus begged for the Potter witch’s life when he found out that Voldemort planned to go after them. Lord Voldemort could use this to his advantage. He assured Severus that the mother didn’t need to be harmed, he didn’t even plan on killing the child, he was going to take him. If Severus could find him the house the girl needn’t die. He seemed to take that as a personal challenge, as the Dark Lord had hoped he would. He was getting frustrated not being able to find them.
Severus brought him a rat that squeaked about where both the Potters and the Longbottoms were hiding. The Potters were in Godric’s Hollow while the Longbottoms were in Mould-on-the-Wold.
Voldemort had had plenty of time to prepare everything for a full magical and blood adoptions of his future son. Severus had prepared the potions required, Augustus had been preparing the rune work with the help of Rabastan while Antonin prepared all of the spells and chants with the help of Barty. Bellatrix was acting as much of a task master as Voldemort, as she would also hopefully be performing the rituals soon. Orson Nott had made golems that could be enchanted to appear as dead versions of their future children. Gruesome but necessary if they didn’t want anyone coming after them.
Voldemort waited for an auspicious day, Samhain, to act out his retrieval. It would be a good night to perform an adoption ritual. Bellatrix and Rodolphus had gone to enact their own retrieval while the others did the final preparations.
Voldemort smoke-stepped into the old cemetery that was down the street from the Potter’s cottage. He heard the loud clap that denoted nearby appartion as he neared the house. He didn’t know if people were coming or going, but it didn’t really matter to him as long as the child and parents were home.
There were barely any protections on the house. A few measly wards that someone with the power of Voldemort could easily tear through. He was in the cottage in a few strides, the door banging open upon his approach.
The Potter boy was in front of him, wand raised, snarling and spitting like some kind of wild animal. It was probably for the better that a babe with such potential as to be his equal wasn’t raised by such a man. Such a child.
Voldemort cast a simple blasting jinks at the Potter, who managed to get a shield up at the last second. The jinks tore through the shield and threw Potter into the wall behind him. Hard. He was alive for now, though he probably wouldn’t remain so for much longer without treatment.
Voldemort wasn’t much concerned either way. The nuisance had been dealt with for the moment and Voldemort had other, better things to conserve his energy for. He cast a hominum revelio and found that there were two people close together upstairs.
He found them in a nursery, the red headed witch that Severus had asked him to spare stood in front of a crib, in which a babe, his babe, stood holding the rails. The child peered up at him with large intelligent eyes. The green was a similar shade as his mothers, though Voldemort found it much more compelling on the small boy.
The witch, unlike her foolish husband, began by begging the dark lord to spare her son.
Her Harry.
He revoked the previous thought. It turned out that she was just as foolish as the male Potter.
‘Her son.’
‘Her Harry.’
She was a mere surrogate in the grand scheme, and she had the audacity to claim his son as her own. Whether she was ignorant to the prophecies or not made no difference to Lord Voldemort.
The audacity to name the boy ‘Harry’ also had his wand hand twitching. He would never understand the Potter’s penchant for plebeian names. Voldemort already had a new name picked out for both his son and himself.
They would both be reborn in the ritual.
The woman was quick to notice that her pleas were getting her nowhere and went on the offensive. She started throwing spells at the dark lord, who had summoned a shield around himself that was effectively absorbing everything she threw at him. He hadn’t thrown any of his own spells yet, as she was standing too close to the crib.
He tried moving in a different direction and it seemed to work, as the witch was so locked on to him. She moved a few steps away from the crib and Voldemort began his own volley of attacks. She blocked a couple of his weaker severing charms, though even more hit her. They weren’t deep or aimed to kill, though if this went on for too long or she left them unhealed she would undoubtedly die.
No, he was aiming to hurt and weaken her, She was strong, he would give her that, but she would run out of power sooner or later and he wouldn’t have to risk hurting his child. That was, if the crazy woman didn’t end up doing so herself. She was throwing her own curses and charms at him all the while.
She had shot something dealing with fire at him and the curtains behind him burst into flame. She was as bad as Bella. Voldemort shot a body bind at her head and she ducked just in time. He shot three consecutive severing charms at her. She blocked the first, the second hit her right in the side, shallow but painful, the third she flicked away with a shield, as if it were an annoyance.
A shrill scream filled the room that had both adults freezing. Voldemort glanced towards his son, who had been watching the proceedings with a curious expression up until then. Now, the baby boy’s face was crumpled into one of pure agony as blood gushed from a gash marring his face.
Voldemort saw red, and it wasn’t just the blood. He looked to the witch, whose face was adorned with her own look of horror. Good, let her see. It was the stupid bitch’s fault for not even knowing how to properly block a spell. That charm was easier to absorb than deflect in the first place, it was her fault that his boy was hurt.
Voldemort hit her with a body bind that took immediately and levitated her body off to one side, not too far from where the fire was starting to spread. He hit her with a crucio that wasn’t held for nearly long enough in his opinion, but priorities must be seen to.
He approached the screaming child and cast a quick healing charm that wouldn't do much but stop the bleeding and numb the wound just a bit. He heard a voice yelling downstairs and knew he had to be quick. He pulled the golem from his robes and placed it in the crib. Orson had said that a strand of the boys hair would have been good enough to enact the golem, but Tom wasn’t one to let an opportunity pass. He swiped a finger through the blood on the boys face, avoiding the sensitive area, and drew a line down the face of the golem. He picked up the still whimpering babe and tucked him into his robes, so he would be hidden away from the outside world.
He heard boots storming up the stairs and just as the figure entered sight, Voldemort cast a wandless and wordless spell that burst all of the windows in the room open with a sudden gust of strong wind. The flames rose to the challenge, flaring up around him. Voldemort cast a spell at the golem, silenced by the ward he had placed around himself and his still whimpering charge. The spell was green, just a shade or two off of the killing curse. As the light flared, spurred on by the offered blood, Voldemort turned into smoke. The last thing he saw was the older Black boy dragging the idiot girl out of the flames.
He should have let her burn.