Prologue Part 1- The Meeting of Worlds
Voldemort apparated into the parlor of Malfoy Manor, stumbling and collapsing to the ground. His breath wheezed as he lay there, supporting himself against the table leg. He gasped weakly as blood pooled around him from the various cuts and lacerations on his body.
He lifted his wand weakly and passed it over the deep cuts, muttering "Vulnera Sanenteur" while doing so.
The healing spell only managed to lace skin over some of the shallower cuts, but they promptly ripped back open when he moved his wand away from them. He quickly ran over a dozen other healing, mending, or fixing spells he knew off the top of his head, to similar results, when they worked at all.
Giving up, he set his wand on the ground next to him. He reached up and pushed away some of his dark brown hair that was matted over his eyes with blood and reached one hand to roll up his torn sleeve, hoping that he had enough power to summon his subordinates with the dark mark.
His fingers tugged the sleeve up. Before he could send his will through it and activate the summons, the armchair by the fireplace spun around and a man outfitted in a custom-made suit stared at him with a small smirk. Silver strands in his brown hair glittered in the firelight and eyes so dark they almost looked black peered at him from behind hooded eyelids.
"Oh, I wouldn't do that if I were you." He said casually as he scratched Nagini's head as she hissed in pleasure on his lap.
Voldemort shot up as much as he was able to till his injuries prevented him from standing. He pointed the wand at the man, right between the eyes, and began to summon the hate to cast the killing curse. "Who are you, and what are you doing in my house?" he barked out, ignoring the telltale trembling in his wand hand that was not usually there.
The man didn't even flutter an eyelid, he just continued to stare evenly at the Dark Lord as he petted Nagini. "I am the man who will save your sorry life, mortal. Now put that stupid stick down." And with that he batted the stick away from his face and stood up, Nagini slithering to the floor, as he eyed Voldemort over with a critical eye. "Ah, Mrs. Potter got you good with her death curse I see." he continued to mumble to himself as he took note of all the injuries.
Voldemort was fed up with this man, this stranger who had come into his home, and acted like he was better. He raised the wand again and yelled "Avada Kedavra!" and the brilliant green light flashed from his wand and hit the man right between the eyes.
And it did nothing. The green flash faded and the man still stood there, amusement in his eyes as he idly brushed imagined dust off his impeccable suit.
"If you are done now, perhaps you would like to hear me out?" he said, derision in his tone as Voldemort slumped back down, the last of his energy escaping with that spell.
When Voldemort didn't respond, the man took this as permission to continue and crouched down in front of the defeated dark lord. In spite of himself, Voldemort shivered when those eyes met his. Usually, he saw fear reflected in the people he met, and sometimes even courage and bravery as they stood up to him. Not that any survived. But here, all he saw was coldness—a deep, dark coldness as they looked upon him. No anger, no passion, cruelty, or happiness. Just…emptiness.
"My name, Riddle, is Nicodemus. And I am here to offer you a second chance to defeat your greatest enemies. If you decide to take me up on my offer, just pick up this coin. All will be explained." And with that, he straightened up, gave Nagini one last friendly head scratch, and strode out of the large doors into the night, where the darkness consumed him instantly.
Voldemort lowered his gaze slowly, and sitting on the floorboards, where the man had left it, sat a coin. It was about the size of an American penny and sat there, innocently. But even from this far away, he could feel the power pulsing from it. It felt a lot like the Horcruxes he had made, almost alive in a way with the dark magic. As he looked closer, it seemed there was a crown of thorns engraved onto the silver, and Latin words surrounding it.
It glimmered and shone in the firelight, tempting him to take it, calling to him. Against his will, he felt his fingers twitch and itch toward it. He tightened his hand into a fist, gaining control of it again. He didn't want to take it up, he was Lord Voldemort and he didn't need any help! But then he shifted slightly and a shaft of pain shot through him, causing him to grit his teeth and hiss in pain. All of his cuts were burning, his followers were not here to assist him and the blood leaked. He knew that if something did not change, he would not live through the night. And with that, he made his decision. His hand inched forward, fingers scrabbling as they dragged themselves across the wood to where the coin sat. His fingertips touched it, and instead of being cold like normal metal was, it was warm. Hot, even.
As his fingers curled around him and he lifted it into the palm of his hand, a voice suddenly filled his head. It hissed and said, "Accept meeee."
Suddenly, fear filled him, replacing the anger and pain. He didn't know what was going on, he didn't know why this coin practically radiating dark magic was speaking to him, what it was. Did he want to do this, accept this? But then the hunger for power that had driven him so far in life, from a scared boy in the orphanage to a Lord filled him and his resolve hardened. He would not live in fear, and he would show the old fool in Hogwarts what real power was.
His voice was filled with resolve and he snarled, "I accept."
And the coin seared, and fire roared in his ears. When he uncurled his hand to drop the coin, and get rid of the burning, it wasn't there. In his palm, seared into the skin, was the coin. It was in him. And a voice, deep and unmistakably British, with a hint of a rasp, filled his brain.
Ah. I have not felt this amount of inherent power in a long time. Yes, this will do well.
Voldemort was shocked as he heard someone else's voice in his mind, and thought angrily Who are you?! What the hell are you doing in my head?
I am the spirit that resides in the coin, You may call me Namshiel.
Michael Carpenter strolled down the street, duffel bag tapping his leg as he walked in the gloomy night. He turned a corner, and in the streetlamp light, he saw that the road was called Wisteria Walk. He did not know why he was there, nor what he was supposed to do. But he had gotten used to the strange compulsions by now and simply let his mind drift as his feet guided him along. This time it had brought him to England, somewhere in the suburbs of the London area, a town called Little Whinging. This was the farthest the tug had ever pulled him so far, and it was disconcerting to be in a country he had never visited before. Especially when the other Knights were closer. But he just shrugged and continued on. He always had his reasons, Michael thought.
The first few times he had felt the tugging, it was a disturbing sensation. It was like an itch in the back of his mind that he could only scratch if he did what it wanted him to do. When he went to the place he was being tugged, however, there was always a terrified child or a group of people who needed protection and saving. So eventually he came to welcome its feeling, for he welcomed the chance to save people who needed saving.
This is why, as he turned yet another corner, he was not that surprised to see all the street lights on this street suddenly go out. He tensed up, slowly walked to the side, and hid behind a tree, lowering his duffel bag to the ground. He knelt, unzipping it slowly, and it opened noiselessly since he kept it well-oiled. Once done, he shrugged off his jacket and folded it, placing it in the duffel bag and his hand encircled a long circular object wrapped in cloth. He lifted it out carefully, the whole time never looking down as his hands performed the practiced motions with ease, instead peering into the growing darkness as the last two street lamps went out. He took the cloth on the ground and unfurled it, revealing the object inside. It was a five-foot-long slender sword that was spotless, without a hint of rust or blood on it. He did not bother to take the sword out of the black scabbard, just clipping it to his tool belt, since it was not actively thrumming in a warning.
As he zipped the bag back up, he heard the low murmur of a voice in the darkness in front of him. He squinted and he thought he could make one person out there, striding around in the darkness, carrying something in his arms. With a start, he blinked again in surprise as a second person just erupted from the ground.
Peering forward, he could make out the outline of a second person walking next to the already present person, also with a large triangle-shaped head. He blinked worriedly, wondering if he had a Naagloshii in his hands. But if it was a skinwalker, his sword probably would have lit up with the sheer psychic evil it possessed. So he waited, watching as the two people talked in hushed voices as they made their way to a house on this back street. Suddenly, from the sky, he began to hear a large rumble. His eyes widened in disbelief as a motorcycle swooped down from the sky, and a massive mountain of a man stepped off. Now, Michael Carpenter was not tiny. In his profession, he kept fit and worked out daily when he did not have an assignment, along with being over 6 feet. And a job as a carpenter was demanding work, too. But this man put him to shame. He towered above him, nearly 11 feet tall if he had to guess in the dark. And he was wide, filling out every inch of his tall frame, with a large waist and arms that looked like they could break a man in half without much effort. He handed one of the two people a bundle he had cradled against his chest, and the two of them walked forward.
The original person that had appeared leaned down, pulled out a bundle from his robes, and laid it gently on the ground in front of the door. In the porch light, he could see that it was not a creature with a triangle-shaped head like he had assumed, but an old man with a large and pointy hat on his head. His long hair shined white in the light and he had an equally long white beard that flowed down his chest. Standing beside him, looking down at the bundle, was a gray-haired woman in another pointy hat and robes. The giant stayed down on the end of the driveway, silently watching. The two elders stood there for one moment, conversing quietly before they knocked on the door and the old man suddenly shimmered, like he was viewing him through a heat shimmer, before disappearing altogether. And the woman shrunk rapidly before, in her place, a cat ran away into the dark. The moment the old man disappeared, all the streetlamps came back on all at once, causing him temporary blindness. By the time his sight had returned, the motorcycle had flown into the sky and was rapidly turning into a dark speck in the distance.
Not sure what he had just witnessed, he stood up slowly and started to slip back on his jacket, he froze when he heard a piercing scream split the air. He straightened immediately, hand going to his sword. The wail came again, and he slowly walked forward, scanning the darkness repeatedly as he strode forward to the source of the wailing. On the porch of the doorstep, the little bundle that had been placed there wailed again.
As he leaned down, he gasped audibly. It was a baby! They had left a baby in the cold biting air! He hurriedly ripped off his jacket and bundled the baby in it, cradling it into his chest as he rocked it. The baby's sobs soon slowed to hiccups before it stopped crying altogether and drifted into a deep sleep, sucking its thumb. As he looked down at it, its face was chubby in the way all babies were chubby, and there was a wound on his forehead that had been stitched up nicely. As he walked back across the street, he noticed that there was a letter tucked into the blanket. Carefully, as to not disturb the now sleeping babe, he pulled out the envelope and read the front of it. It was addressed to Petunia Evans living at 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey. He slowly turned it over and saw there was a stamp of a house crest with a large H in the middle dividing it up. As he stared at the paper in his hands he bit his lip, weighing his options. On one hand, he knew it was not his baby nor his letter and he had no legal right to take it and open it. But on the other hand, it was not suitable for strangers to leave a baby at the doorstep and abandon it.
Closing his eyes, he reached into his heart, Lord, what should I do?
Almost as if unbidden by him, his fingers opened the letter and pulled out the sheet of paper inside it, unfolding it. He nodded and opened his eyes, figuring that was the answer enough. His eyes scanned over the letter quickly, absorbing it.
Dear Petunia Evans,
I regret to inform you that your sister, Lily Evans, died on October 31, 1981. Her husband, James Potter, also perished. I know you were not close with them, but I assumed you would wish to be informed of their deaths. They died after being attacked and murdered by a renegade wizard called Lord Voldemort. He killed them in an attempt to kill the baby, which he deemed could be a future threat to him. Rest assured, he is dead now and will not be bothering anyone else again.
But there is another matter we wish to inform you of. In this bundle is Harry James Potter. You are his only surviving kin and I hope that, even if there was no lost love between you and your sister, you will find it in your heart to take care of this defenseless little boy. But there is another reason besides love that I must implore that you take him. Your sister's last act before she was killed was to protect her son, which she did by putting some of her blood on young Harry and with her last breath using her death curse as a protection spell on him, linked through blood. In other words, as long as he is in your house, raised by someone who bore the same blood as his mother, he will be safe, and more importantly, invisible to the magical world. For while Lord Voldemort is gone and dead, his few followers that remain are still out there and may wish to get revenge on him, as despicable as it may seem to take revenge on a 15-month-old little boy.
As long as he lives in your house, he is safer than anywhere else he can be in the Wizarding World. I believe your sister knew this when she dabbed her blood on her only son and would wish for you to love her like your own son. I am very sorry to inform you of this terrible news.
Sincerely,
Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore
Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Chief Wizard of Wizengamot, and Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards
As Michael reached the end of the letter, his lips tightened angrily. Any person who would kill a baby for what they might do later in life deserved the Judgement the Lord had set for him. As he folded it up, he felt peace in his heart that a mother would still love enough to protect their offspring with their final breath. Recently a father himself, Michael knew he would throw himself in the path of a bullet for his child without hesitation. Closing the letter back up, he pondered what he should do. God wanted him here for a reason, guiding him to this street at this time. God always had a plan and he just needed to figure out what it was. He decided that he would wait and watch the house, and wait for the people who lived there to come out. If they seemed like good people, he would leave the baby with them and proceed from there. After coming to this decision, he sat down and rocked the baby gently, leaning against the tree as he waited for morning.