The Murder of Harry J. Potter
-October 10 1991-
Draco had been sitting in the common room of the Dark Lord’s Castle when he heard the scream. His mother had requested he come home for the weekend and attend the Dark Lord’s castle with her in an attempt to cheer up Little One. When Draco heard that Little One had been rescued, he’d been so relieved. He missed his little brother so much, and he hadn’t been sleeping well from all the worry.
Despite coming to visit Little One, Draco hadn’t seen the toddler Inferius once. His mother had reassured him, saying that it wasn’t him but the fact that Little One was incredibly weary of everyone. Draco could understand that. Draco supposed that had he been kidnapped, he wouldn’t want to see anyone either.
So while his mother and father attended a meeting with the Dark Lord, Draco settled into the comfortable armchair and began to read his school books. Draco wasn’t sure how long he’d been sitting there reading, but when the high pitched scream rang through the air, Draco had been startled to see that the common room was empty.
Something about the scream set Draco on edge, and he grit his teeth at the feeling. He felt stupid at the way he immediatly felt uneasy at the noise. He was probably overreacting. He stood quickly, his books falling to the floor with a clatter. He was just about to go off and find the origin of the scream when the door to the Dark Lord’s personal Meeting Hall slammed open. Draco jumped at the sudden noise and whipped his head around to see a composed, yet clearly enraged Dark Lord storm out of the room, frantic Inner Circle members following close behind.
Suddenly, Draco’s bad feeling didn’t seem so stupid.
“Find him!” the Dark Lord barked. “Find Little One, now!”
Draco felt ice water wash over him as he realized whose scream that was. Draco’s wide eyes found his mother and she nodded discreetly at Draco’s silent question. Draco sucked in a harsh breath as the thought of Little One screaming made his blood boil. Determination quickly replaced his rage, though, and Draco quickly ran out of the room in search of Little One.
The scream sounded close by, and Draco figured that it came from one of the halls leading to the back garden. Mother had told Draco that Little One was very weary and isolated, and if Little One were to go anywhere without the Dark Lord, he’d go to the gardens.
Draco quickly raced towards the first hall and for a moment, Draco wished that he hadn’t been the one to realize where Little One would go. Draco froze in place when he saw the blood. It was pooling on the ground, and Draco couldn’t see where it was coming from as he could only see the blood from around the corner. Heart pounding, Draco turned the corner and fought the urge to vomit.
It was gruesome.
His little brother, the most gentle and kind person Draco had ever met, was sprawled out in a tangle of limbs on the cold ground. He gagged at the sight of Little One’s head bent at an awkward angle, and it took Draco a second to understand why.
Someone had ripped his stitches out!
The blood continued to sluggishly exit his neck, adding to the growing crimson wetness staining the ground. Little One’s green eyes were wide with terror and pain, his mouth open on a silent scream. The only noise escaping him were wheezes and a soft gurgle as Little One choked on his own blood. Draco’s stomach rebelled further.
“Oh Merlin…” he said, tears filling his eyes at the horrific sight. He sucked in a deep breath and screamed for help. He sunk to his knees, his trembling hands stretching out towards Little One. Draco could feel his knees being soaked but he didn’t care. All Draco could think of was what kind of a monster could do something like this?
The sound of feet pounding against the ground snapped Draco out of his horrified shock. He snapped his head up in time to see his father, Aunt Bella and the Dark Lord come around the corner. His father and Aunt stopped in their tracks, their eyes widening in horrified disgust at the sight of the toddler.
The Dark Lord, however, is terrifyingly calm in his rage.
Draco watches as the Dark Lord steps forward, his face composed into a calm mask, yet the rage Draco sees in the Dark Lord’s crimson eyes give away what the Dark Lord is truly feeling. Draco shivers at the look of pure, unadulterated fury in the Dark Lord’s eyes. Never has Draco feared the Dark Lord like he did in that moment.
Little One wheezes louder at the sight of the Dark Lord, and a choked whimper escapes the Inferius’s lips. Draco suppressed a gag when blood spatters against Little One’s lip. Draco watches as the Dark Lord crouches down next to Little One, and Draco does not fight against the tug on his arm as his father pulls him away from the gruesome scene.
“Oh, dear heart,” the Dark Lord coos softly. The tone is gentle and soothing, and would seem genuine if his crimson eyes were not alight with a fury Draco never knew could burn so brightly. “Calm yourself, Little One. You will be fine. I’m here.”
Gently, tender in a way Draco had never seen before, the Dark Lord slipped his hands under the toddler. He put one hand under Little One’s head, offering support and keeping Little One’s neck from being jostled even further, while his other hand slipped under his knees. Little One’s damaged neck rested in the crook of the Dark Lord’s elbow while the Dark Lord lifted the toddler off the ground. Another pained whimper left Little One’s lips, and it made Draco’s chest feel unbearably tight.
With the Inferius safely secured, the Dark Lord turned his gaze towards everyone else. Draco couldn't help but shiver at the mad look in the Dark Lord’s gaze. “Find them.” he commands. They all bow before the Dark Lord turns around and walks away briskly, his strides wide and quick while his footsteps echo across the empty hallway.
“Draco…” Draco hears his father say softly, but Draco can’t.
The blood lays in a puddle on the floor, and this time, Draco notices splatters all over the wall as though the person who did this just ripped at Little One without a care. This time, Draco doesn’t have a chance of keeping his stomach.
Draco doubles over and loses his lunch all over the ground.
Voldemort’s hands tremble, and no matter how hard he tries, he can’t get them to stop.
The rage is overwhelming. Voldemort has never felt such seething anger before. It’s overbearing, it runs through his veins like blood and it makes Voldemort grit his teeth and clench his jaw hard enough for it to pop. Voldemort has never felt this way before. Not even when Little One was kidnapped. This rage… This anger… This impossible desire to destroy whatever did this… whoever did this.
Yet deep down, Voldemort was lying to himself. This was not the first time he felt this rage.
Little One whimpers softly again, tears sliding down his face and mixing with the blood. It sets Voldemort on edge. He gently places Little One on the medical table. Little One cries out when Voldemort’s hands leave him and Voldemort is quick to shush him.
“Calm, precious,” he soothes. “I am here. Please, calm yourself. You are safe now. You are safe.” This was not the first time Voldemort was in this position, and the deja vu threatened to overtake him.
Voldemort waved his hand over his shaking child and the protective magic washes over him. The terrified emerald eyes slip closed and Voldemort lets a small sigh escape his lips as Little One falls into a painless sleep.
Whoever did this was an idiot, no doubt. It was clear that whoever did this was attempting to kill Little One (Voldemort ignored the flash of hot, white rage at the thought and forced himself to focus on the task at hand.) Whoever did this clearly knew nothing about Inferi, though, or they would’ve used fire to kill him. Lucky for Voldemort and unlucky for the moron who did this. Little One couldn’t die from this, but that didn’t mean that there would be no repercussions for what happened.
Oh no, whoever did this was going to scream for eternity.
With trembling hands, Voldemort conjured a muggle needle and thread. He threaded the needle before he turned to his sleeping child. With a wandless scourgify, Little One was clean. The sight made him grip the needle in his hands tightly. Without the blood covering him, Little One looked slightly less gruesome, but the open wound on his neck attested to the horror his precious had endured.
Because Little One was dead, his body could not repair itself. It also could not produce more blood. Voldemort would need to give Little One dozens of blood replenishers to get his blood levels back to their normal state. As his hands slowly began to stitch the base of Little One’s neck, he found himself wishing that magic could heal this.
Inferi were tricky pieces of magic. They weren’t really dead but neither were they really alive. And because of that, any injuries sustained after the ritual could be healed with magic, while scars and injuries obtained before the ritual were paused forever---not amount of magic could heal them.
As Voldemort finished the first stitched ‘x’, the deja vu flashed over him again. The feeling he felt all those years ago returned with a vengeance, and Voldemort breathed out harshly as he felt the anger and pain he thought he’d never have to feel again.
The feeling he felt that night… The night when he’d been too late…
-January 3 1984-
Finally, after weeks of planning, Voldemort was ready to take his new son home. He’d been coming back almost every night for the past few weeks to see the child Voldemort intended to blood adopt. After that fateful night of December, Voldemort found himself looking forward to spending time with Harry. Voldemort knew it was crazy to feel so strongly towards a child he’d just met, but Voldemort didn’t care. He was a Dark lord and if he wanted a son, then by Merlin, he’d get a son!
He apparated with a loud crack in front of the house his little prince had been forced to live in for the past few years. He adjusted his robes and quickly cast a silencing spell around the house. Voldemort knew this was going to get ugly quite fast, as he had no intention of letting those disgusting muggles who abused his son walk free after this.
He slammed the front door open, a smile on his face. He couldn’t wait to see his son and take him away from here. Tonight was going to be a great night! He was going to save his son and destroy abusive muggle pigs. And Voldemort wouldn’t have it any other way.
His smile slipped off his face, however, at the sight that greeted him inside the house.
Before him, a whale of a muggle held his son off the ground by his throat, and his son was barely fighting back, soft choking noises escaping as the muggle strangled him. Rage washed over him like it never had before and Voldemort waved his hand ferociously.
The muggle slammed into the wall with a force that shook the house. His son went flying in the other direction, but Voldemort was too occupied with destroying the monster that was hurting his son to care.
Voldemort stalked towards the muggle, his crimson eyes flashing with murderous rage. “CRUCIO!” he snarled, the magic blasting out of him in a way it never had before. The screams the muggle made was music to his ears.
After ten seconds the muggle’s eyes rolled up into the back of his head and his pounding heart gave out under the stress. The strength of the overpowered unforgivable had killed the muggle. Satisfied with the muggle’s (regrettably quick) death, Voldemort turned at the high pitched screech that came from behind him.
Standing frozen in the kitchen door was a muggle woman and her heavy son. Voldemort’s eyes flashed at the sight of the pig-like muggle child. The child was his son’s age, yet it was clear who was favored. The child was better dressed and well fed, whereas his son wore rags and looked as though a breeze could blow him over.
“W-Who are y-you?!” the woman cried, her high pitched voice reminding Voldemort of the whinny a horse made.
“I’m Harry’s father.” Voldemort hissed, watching with sadistic glee as the horse-woman’s eyes widened with horror. “You dared hurt my son, so I shall repay the favor!”
“NO---”
Voldemort’s curse left his wand before the woman had the chance to finish her screamed refusal. The pig child squealed like it’s animal counterpart and fell to the ground in a heap. Voldemort chuckled before he lifted the curse. “I am merciful,” Voldemort said softly. He stepped forward, ignoring the horse-woman’s pleas, and crouched down in front of the child. “Do you want the pain to end?”
“No! No, please!”
The pig child nodded, tears and slobber coating his disgusting face. Voldemort grinned. The green curse left his wand and the child slumped to the ground, no longer breathing. The horse-woman wailed loudly and the noise grated on Voldemort’s ears.
“Crucio.” Voldemort whispered, relishing in the agonized screams that poured out of her mouth. He held it for almost twenty seconds before the muggle’s heart gave out. Somehow, muggles could never survive the cruciatus. It always ended Voldemort’s revenge too quickly. The second the woman hit the ground, however, Voldemort felt awareness return to him.
Harry!
He turned around, his gaze searching for his son, only for his heart to stop at the sight.
Harry lay in a pool of crimson liquid, his neck bent at a disgusting angle while his emerald eyes were glazed over and lidded. He was laying in the remains of what seemed to be a china cabinet. A shard of broken china was still sticking out of Harry’s neck.
“NO!” Voldemort gasped, running to him. His hands grappled for the shard, and his fingers closed around it as he tried to staunch the blood flow. “Harry? Precious? Darling? Please, wake up dear. Harry? Harry!”
Voldemort continued to babble, not comprehending a word he was saying. All he could think about was how the blood sluggishly poured out of the wound on his neck and how he couldn’t feel Harry’s heart beating.
A feeling Voldemort had never felt before washed over him. It was overwhelming, and the waves of the unknown emotion lapped at his mind and threatened to pull him under. His vision tunneled as the sight of his son lying dead assaulted him. Voldemort could hear his ears ringing and Voldemort forced himself to breathe.
Harry wasn’t breathing.
Harry’s heart was beating.
Harry was dead.
His son was dead.
His son was dead.
With a scream of pure agony, Voldemort felt his magic explode out of him. The magic tore apart the house, and as the building around him crumbled, Voldemort threw a protective shield around himself and the cooling body of his son. The unknown emotion racked him, and his body began to tremble. Water dripped down, landing on his son’s cool cheeks with a soft spatter. Tears. Voldemort was… Voldemort was crying?
Voldemort sucked in a breath that hitched in the back of his throat. Never had Voldemort felt so… human before. When Voldemort tried to breathe out, a sob escaped his lips.
“No, no, no, no.” Voldemort repeated, his hands never leaving the wound on his son’s neck. Suddenly, his anger reared it’s head once more.
That muggle had killed his son! His death was too fast! Too easy! Voldemort needed to make him suffer! He needed to bring back the man who had hurt his son and destroy him for what he did. Make him feel the agony Voldemort felt and multiply it by a million and torture him for eternity. He needed to---
Voldemort froze.
Bring him back… Bring him back… Voldemort could…
Determination raced through him, overpowering the grief and rage he felt until his head cleared. He straightened out of the crouch and stood, his hands leaving his son’s neck reluctantly. This would take a lot of magical energy, but it was worth it if he could save his son.
Voldemort waved his hand and the rubble around him cleared slightly, leaving a clean spot for Voldemort to perform the ritual. Voldemort summoned moon chalk and quickly drew the rune circle that was needed. Voldemort had never felt more lucky than he did right then, the moon was in perfect position for the ritual, and Voldemort had everything he needed with him.
He could do this. He could save his son. He could bring him back!
As Voldemort worked, his magic filled the remnants of the destroyed house, the oppressive power purifying the area and preparing it for the ritual. When Voldemort finished the first round of chanting he stood and walked over to where his son’s body lay.
He tenderly lifted his child from the ground and carried him to the center of the circle. Placing him on the ground delicately, his hand gently caressed his son’s rapidly cooling cheek. “Soon my precious,” he whispered. “You will be safe.”
He stepped out of the circle and got into the position needed to complete the ritual. He bowed down, his forehead resting against his knees as he chanted, his words coming out like a whispered plea.
Voldemort could feel the very moment when the ritual began to work. His magic flared out at the unexpected pull before Voldemort willed it to corporate. His magic flowed like water into the circle, the runes lighting up with the power. Voldemort could feel his reserves being used as he put everything he had into the ritual.
At the peak of the ritual, the light of the full moon shone down on the circle. The runners lit up with a blinding light before Voldemort felt a harsh tug on his magic. Voldemort let out a cry as his magic was pulled away from him. Just as quickly as it started, it ended.
When the light disappeared, Voldemort slowly raised his head, hope flowing through him. His crimson eyes desperately scanned over the fallen form of his son, willing him to move, to do anything to prove that the ritual worked.
Voldemort felt relief course through him as he saw his son let out a loud gasp before he curled in on himself. Voldemort could feel his body sag as the adrenalin left him and the effects of the ritual hit him. But when he heard his son let out a soft sob, Voldemort forced himself to stand and he quickly made his way over to him.
He scooped his son into his arms and delighted in the feeling. His son was back! He saved his son! He did it!
In his arms, Harry rested fitfully. “Papa.” his son sobbed softly, and Voldemort felt his gaze soften as he looked at his child. Voldemort could tell that the child---newly made Inferius---was exhausted and completely overwhelmed.
“Calm yourself, precious,” Voldemort whispered, caressing his son’s cheek. “You’re safe now. I’m here.”
Voldemort stood in the rubble of a destroyed house, three bodies lying on the ground, half covered by the wreckage. The scent of smoke wafted through the air as small bursts of fire burned around him. Yet through all this, Voldemort had never felt more complete. His crimson eyes drank in the sight greedily, and he could feel his possessiveness rearing its ugly head. Finally, he had his son.
“You’re safe now.”
Voldemort blinked, willing the memory out of his mind. Voldemort finished the final stitching, as he cut the final thread. Little One needed four extra stitches to close the wound on his neck, as the barbarian who hurt him had tore his neck farther.
Voldemort banished the needle and thread before he summoned four bottles of blood replenishers. It was better to start off slow to keep Little One from being in more discomfort than he had to be. He gently poured the potion into his son’s mouth, massaging his throat to help him swallow. Only when all four bottles were in his son’s stomach and Little One’s grey pallor pinked slightly, did Voldemort let exhaustion pull at him.
The myriad of emotions that fought for control in the past few hours had overwhelmed him, and Voldemort felt a rare moment of weakness wash over him. He had not felt so emotionally compromised in several decades. It was almost pathetic how weak Voldemort felt.
He had been ignoring it for as long as he could, but seeing his son laying in a medical bed, his eyes closed and still wearing blood stained clothes, Voldemort could fight the feelings no longer. All the pain and terror and concern and fear and anger Voldemort had been repressing for the past few weeks came over him like a tidal wave. Every single emotion that Voldemort had pushed down since Little One’s kidnapping fought for control, and Voldemort could not bear it.
Voldemort hugged his son’s unconscious body close to him, and sobbed.