Chapter Text
Light.
Green light, in a flash so bright it drowns out the world.
Pain sears through him. It ignites his flesh, and for a brief instant he is ablaze, every nerve ending overloaded with agony. Then his body turns to ash. He feels it happen, skin consumed, fat dissolved, bones crumbling, brain disintegrated, connections severed, all that is him falling into a pile of dry powder on the floor.
He is unmade.
Lost to the physical world, his scream holds no substance.
The spell failed. A spell he has cast so often, a spell that never fails, a spell that always removes whatever obstacle stands in his way. It failed. The curse rebounded, struck him, and he cannot understand why.
The obstacle is still here.
The girl is wailing, producing more noise than her tiny lungs should reasonably be able to. Green eyes filled with tears dart around the room. They don't see him. He is less than a shade now, less than the weakest of ghosts.
Not dead, tethered to life by his Horcruxes. Not alive either.
There is no word for what he is.
He flees from the room.
He seeks refuge in the forest. He remains here, intent on living beyond this vile, current state. He does not sleep. He cannot sleep, his form incompatible with even the most basic processes of life.
He hovers, ever aware, and he thinks.
He plots.
When he wants to feel the thrill of life, to have a beating heart and to draw breath again, he possesses small animals. Snakes, rats, the occasional owl. Their bodies cannot play host to him for long, and he leaves a trail of desiccated carcasses behind him.
He waits for his faithful Death Eaters to find him. Surely they will. They cannot think him gone—cannot think him defeated by a baby.
A month passes. Perhaps more. It is hard to tell time in this state.
Finally, someone finds him.
Peter Pettigrew is not the first name Voldemort would have picked if asked who was most likely to step forward and come to their Lord's help. It isn't the second, or the third. In fact, it's so far down the list there are nearly no names below his. Pettigrew was useful in betraying the Potters, but beyond that, he is an entirely unremarkable wizard and a coward who has only come to Voldemort out of fear.
That he is the first—and the only—to find Voldemort feels like an insult.
There will be time to punish the others later.
"The rats led me to you, my Lord," Pettigrew stutters. "They spoke of a dark shadow in the forest, and of great danger, and I knew it was you, I knew you had survived."
He brought Voldemort's wand, scavenged amid the ruins of the Potters' house. His skills are subpar, but they are enough to cast the Imperius on a Muggle and to brew a potion that will stabilize his body to be used as a vessel.
It's a temporary solution, and Voldemort's new body is far from ideal, but it will suffice for now.
His first priority is the girl.
He finds her so easily. Dumbledore didn't even hide her. She's with her family—with the Muggle sister of Lily Potter. Muggles. Really. Does Dumbledore intend for the girl to know nothing of her true heritage? Does he want her to grow up like Voldemort himself has, wondering why she can make strange things happen while the adults panic around her? He would have thought she would be hailed as their Savior, the child of the prophecy, the little darling of the wizarding world, and that she'd be adopted by some family touched by her story.
What is Dumbledore thinking?
The answer becomes clear the moment he reaches the house.
Magic swells and pushes him back in a blast of burning pain, denying him entrance. He cannot even step into the garden.
"A blood ward," he muses out loud.
The last remnant of the girl's mother, her sacrifice echoing in time. Old magic.
He doesn't have the power to undo it. Wand in hand, he paces in front of the garden, waiting for the Muggles to notice him. It's a cold day in late December and the air is chilly. He's the only person out on the street. He didn't bring Pettigrew with him.
On Hallows' Eve, he went alone to take care of what he thought was an obstacle.
He'll be alone today, too.
After five minutes, the front door opens and a woman steps out. He sees traces of Lily Potter in her; the same nose, the same mouth, though she has a harder, more elongated face, and her hair is blond, not red. The look she levels at him is identical to her sister's, hate and fear intermingled in equal parts.
His vessel is a male in his late forties, average in build. He's wearing dark robes that identify him as a wizard. The Muggle doesn't yet know he's Lord Voldemort. He debates on introducing himself.
"What do you want?" she says, staying on the porch, her hands nervously clutching her apron.
"I've come for the girl."
Her mouth sets in a thin line and suspicion tightens the wrinkles around her eyes.
"Did he send you?"
He smiles at the thought. Dumbledore, sending him to retrieve the Potter girl... Perhaps lying would be simpler here. He could tell the woman that yes, he's been sent by Dumbledore, and perhaps she'd bring him the girl. He could, but claiming to be a servant of Dumbledore repulses him. He will not use deception here.
"She must stay with us," the woman adds. "For protection."
He slides a finger down the length of his wand, lovingly, reverently.
"I am Lord Voldemort, and I have come to take what is mine."
The woman jerks back. Pure terror floods her face, and bubbling exhilaration streams through his veins.
That's right. That is exactly how you should look at me.
"No," she says, and she's trembling all over, her hands clutching her apron so tightly her knuckles have gone white, but still... "No," she says again. "You can't take her."
She is brave, too. Is she as brave as her sister?
He flicks his wand and aims it at her. She flinches.
"Stand aside," he orders.
She doesn't.
"She's just a baby. Just a baby. She's innocent, and you—you killed her parents. You killed my sister."
Her face has gone livid. She's rasping her words, a fierce light in her eyes, staring down at the length of his wand. He wouldn't risk casting the Killing Curse while the blood ward stands in the way, but she doesn't know that, and still she isn't moving.
He lowers his wand.
"You have been lied to," he says in a level tone. "Dumbledore told you the girl was family, but he's mistaken. You belong to two different worlds, two worlds that should never have to come into contact with one another. You do not have to accept a magical child into your life and find yourself embroiled in the affairs of wizards as a result. You can live a peaceful life away from those unnecessary complications. All you have to do is give her to me."
He can see her waver. Her hands clench and unclench, her bottom lip trembles, her face loses that harshness as she considers his terms. Now she's opening her mouth, and she's going to do it. She'll say the girl is his. The blood ward will fall, undone by her denial of her link to her niece, and—
"Get off my property."
She snaps her chin up.
"Or I'm calling the police."
Tiresome woman. Just like her sister after all.
He rolls his shoulders, his mind running through the range of spells available to him. Something that can get past the ward, something not lethal, leaving the woman able to speak still...
"Petunia?" says a male voice from inside the house. "Who is that you're talking to?"
A man steps out onto the porch. Heavy-set, with beady eyes and a thick mustache, he immediately glares at Voldemort.
"One of them," he says, disdain in his voice. "I'll handle this. Go back inside."
"Vernon..."
He pushes her behind him firmly.
"What do you want, then?" he barks. "We took in the girl like you asked! We'll raise the brat, but don't think you can come to our house whenever you please! We'll have no contact with the lot of you!"
"The girl," Voldemort says. "I will take her off your hands."
"You'll what?"
"She is a burden placed on your family. She belongs in the magical world. She belongs with me."
The man's eyes narrow. His gaze sweeps over Voldemort, assessing him.
"Vernon, no," the woman whispers, grabbing at her husband's arm. "He'll hurt her!"
"What good is she to us? She keeps crying, she's upsetting Dudley... if we can get rid of her, then I say good riddance!"
"But, Vernon—"
"I won't harm her," Voldemort says softly.
"Take her, then! Take her, she's yours!"
The words ring through the air.
Take her.
She's yours.
Protection through blood magic works in a very crude manner. It holds as long as the vow is upheld. It breaks the moment it's rejected. The man is not the girl's uncle by blood, but because he is married to Lily Potter's sister, magic recognizes his claim to the bond—as well as his ability to undo it.
It's that simple.
It's that quick.
The blood ward dissolves away.
Voldemort steps forward, past the Muggles and into the house. The man shouts something after him. Voldemort ignores him. He finds her upstairs, in the smallest bedroom. She's awake, her little hands clasped around the bars of her crib. Those green eyes stare at him again.
They are the exact color of the Killing Curse.
Was that the case before? He can't recall. She was nothing when he aimed his wand at her, those six syllables on his lips. Nothing at all. She wouldn't live to draw her next breath, and he would go on, free from the shadow of the prophecy.
She's not nothing now.
...and he will mark her as his equal...
He has.
He traces the scar on her forehead, following its path with a gentle thumb. It forks like lightning, a white blaze even on her pale skin, carving down across her right eye. How appropriate. He wouldn't have chosen any other marking for her.
Magic prickles under his finger. Curious. Tangled with the child's natural power, there is something else, something familiar. He reaches out.
It feels like—
a body hitting the wet tiles, a rush of power as he sunders himself
g reen light, his father falling to the floor, empty eyes , empty carcass
a woman , unimportant, already forgotten, and the locket in his hand, warming against his palm
another woman, blonde hair spilling over dark wood, over a golden cup
a scream cut short, a muted thump, sapphires glinting
He did not intend for this. He didn't think it could be done.
And yet here she is, a wild child with lightning under her skin and a piece of his soul inside her.
"Look at you, little Horcrux," he muses in Parseltongue.
She blinks at him, babbles some unintelligible nonsense, and then...
"Crux!"
Parseltongue, crude but undeniably precise, no mere imitation.
"Crux, crux," she goes on, waving her little fists.
He picks her up. She's so tiny, so light. What a wonder she is.
She stares at him and opens her mouth, two teeth peaking out from the gum.
"Crux?"
"That will be Voldemort to you. Or 'father', I suppose."
"Crux!" the child asserts, scrunching up her nose.
"And we'll need to work on your English."
Footsteps sound behind him. He turns, wand lightly held in his hand while he settles the child closer to his chest. The Muggle woman grips the door's frame and stares at her niece.
"What will you do with her?" she says. "And what will I tell Dumbledore? In his letter, he said we were responsible for her, that we should keep her safe, that..."
She trails off, clearly overwhelmed by the situation.
"Tell him I've claimed the girl as my own." He tilts his head, a smile stretching his lips. "Say goodbye, child."
"Bye bye Tunia!" chirps the little angel in his arms.
He Apparates away.
Malfoy Manor stands tall against a stormy sky. Lucius was clever enough to avoid prison, clever enough to slither out of any consequences entirely. He's mildly confused when he finds an unknown wizard at his door with a child in his arms, but a well-placed Crucio convinces him his Lord has returned.
The child doesn't enjoy the sound of his screams.
"Shh, shh, don't cry," Voldemort tells her, running a soothing hand along her back. "You'll have to get used to this. My servants so often need to be disciplined, alas... and you deserve it, don't you, Lucius?"
"Yes, my Lord," comes the raspy answer.
The girl keeps crying, her face wet and snotty as she wails her lungs out.
"What is it? Do you need food? A toy? Why do you keep screaming?"
He cannot get her to shut up. She is most aggravating like this, and he's seriously considering hitting her with a Silencing spell so he can get some peace.
"Perhaps she needs to be changed, my Lord," Lucius ventures in a cautious tone.
His patience quickly exhausted, he hands her off to Narcissa. She'll feed the girl, change her diapers, give her a bath if needed. He will teach the girl, instruct her in the ways of magic and power, show her how to cow masses into submission and push back the boundaries of magic, but he won't do menial work. In any case, child care is best left to women.
That night, he calls his followers back to him.
He stands in the most lavish room of Malfoy Manor. The child, now fed and happy, is in his arms once again, and his Death Eaters Apparate in, one by one, summoned by the burning of the Mark. The pain is important, and he crafted it precisely into the spellwork. It must always be painful to be called to his side. They must never forget who they are—his servants, leashed to him.
Robed in dark, silver masks affixed to their faces, they bow before him.
Not all answer present. Some are missing, dead or in Azkaban. He will avenge the dead, and he will free the imprisoned.
"Did you believe me gone? Did you truly think a child could be my downfall?"
"No, my Lord, no!"
"Never, my Lord... We waited and we hoped..."
"Anything you ask of me shall be done, my Lord..."
They fall to their knees and they beg for his forgiveness.
He grants it.
He is, after all, a merciful Lord.
One of his Death Eaters in particular deserves his attention. He stops before the young, slim man on his knees. Barely twenty-one and already a Hogwarts professor. He was seventeen when Voldemort Marked him, and the fire in those dark eyes held such promise.
"Severus."
"My Lord."
"Rise."
He does, taking off his mask. His black eyes rest upon the child, who considers him in turn.
"Are you here on Dumbledore's orders?"
"I am."
"And are you still loyal to me, Severus?"
"I am."
"S'v'rus!" the child babbles, followed by some seemingly random syllables.
Severus stiffens. His gaze catches the lightning scar and narrow slightly.
"My Lord, if I may ask..."
"You may."
"What do you intend to do with her?"
"As always, you touch upon the heart of the matter. When you brought me the prophecy, Severus—"
"S'v'rus!" the child exclaims, and attempts to grab at Severus' nose, which admittedly makes for quite a large target.
"—I acted too quickly," Voldemort goes on, offering a finger to those grabby hands. "I should have seen that the superior solution was not to strike down the child, but to forge her into my weapon. I will raise her as mine. My heir in all but blood."
Severus gives a nod.
"I assume you've broken the blood ward already."
"The Muggles were quick to hand her over. They did not care for her... not like I will. She will need a new name, of course."
He sweeps a lock of dark hair away from her forehead and brushes a thumb over the scar.
His lips stretch into a smile.
"Eve Gaunt."